


Ambrosial Beginnings

by fragilelittleteacup



Series: Petals and Ink [1]
Category: True Detective
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Anal Sex, Character Death (referenced), Coming Out, Depression, Divorce, Eventual Happy Ending, Extremely Dubious Consent (Rust/Ginger), F/M, Familial Abuse (non-sexual), Fanart (in the last chapter), First Time Bottoming, Fluff, Homophobia, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Romance, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, bottom!Marty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-09-18 08:28:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 41,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9376760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: When they meet, Marty owns a flower shop, and Rust is a tattooist.





	1. Chapter 1

When Marty Hart was a boy, he lived in a small Louisiana house with his mother and father. The furniture was beige and brown, the overall décor featuring an abundance of wood and weary leather. They were hardly wealthy; Marty’s mother was a housewife who repaired clothes for a small income, and his father worked in a factory, earning enough money that he could afford to drink himself unconscious every night.

Years later, when he had grown up and become a detective, Marty would remember the violence with which his father drunkenly taught him lessons on life and manhood– but he would also remember the softness of his mother. She had been a kind woman, with the tired sort of beauty borne of someone who was content with her lot in life. Her face had been prematurely aged by childbirth and stress, her hips widened, but her hair was the colour of summer and her smile lit up her son’s world in a way no one else could. Marty understood very little when he was young– typical, for boys who learn the wrong things from their fathers– but his bullying attitude was matched in kind by a moral compass that unwaveringly followed his mother’s teachings.

Hazily solidified in Marty’s memory, even when both his parents had died, were sun-spotted scenes of his mother’s small garden. She would bend over the plants and take his small hand in hers, gently teaching him to tend for such defenceless things; though Marty’s father had frequently interrupted and demanded she not ‘turn him into some kind of faggot’, the softness of her love had nestled deep in Marty’s heart. He’d snuck out to the garden when his father was passed out or at work, soothingly stroking the flowers, watering them, sitting beside the upturned dirt and watching worms make their way through the soil. He felt a shy kind of pride, as he saw those flowers grow and bloom.

And so it happened that the destruction he learned was rivalled by an appreciation for what it meant to create something with your own two hands. To nurture a plant was to give life. To cultivate beauty.

One day, aged fifteen, he came out into the kitchen dressed in faded denim and a white shirt, tucked in. His mother was collapsed into a sitting position on the floor, head bowed, sobs quietly racking her suddenly fragile frame. Marty had never been a stranger to his father’s violence, but he’d stood there in shocked silence, white-hot terror filling him at the sight of his mother’s weakness. He’d gone out into the garden, picked a bunch of white tulips, found a vase, and handed them to his mother.

“Here, mom,” he’d whispered, eyes wide and desperate with youthful fear, “these are for you.”

She looked up, face streaked with tears and blackened with swollen bruises. She’d smiled, then, blue eyes filled with the kind of love only a mother could know. She sniffed, taking the flowers, and Marty felt some kind of relief pound through his veins. He knelt beside her, and tentatively hugged her.

“I’m sorry, mom,” he said, hearing his own voice shake as he started to cry.

She held him, eyes closed tightly. “Don’t be, my baby boy. Don’t be.”

 

***

 

The nature of Marty’s adolescence, as it bled into adulthood, was summarised in a photograph that he kept for years, even after his childhood was nothing but a distant idea. It stayed in a plain white envelope, along with other relics from a time long-gone.

The polaroid had been taken in his friend Billy’s backyard. In it, Marty was leaned against a wooden fence, a look of excitement and youthful abandon on his oddly attractive face. His squarish features and strong, rounded jawline were brutishly striking, and he had shaggy blonde hair hanging down past his ears. It was uncombed, and it gave him the laidback, wild look that was typical of boys in his generation. He wore clothes that were too big for him, both faded and stained, and there was a beer in his young hand. His bright blue eyes shone with stoned excitement, as if nothing could ever compare to the wondrous, immortal summer he was experiencing.

Marty kept it as a reminder. Because, while others saw a vintage memory and a handsome teenager, he saw his father.

He’d gotten more and more violent growing up, as boys often do. The more Marty was abused at home, the more he abused kids at his school. The boys who cared about their education, who read books for a hobby, who couldn’t play sports, who didn’t smoke weed; they were fair game for Marty, and he turned on them with the vehemence of someone who is terrified of being the victim themselves.

His mother’s garden withered and died, as she worked doubly hard to make up for the money Marty’s father was drinking and gambling away, and Marty did not tend to the flowers again. A small, wounded part of him knew how far he was straying from his mother’s values, from the boy his mother believed he was, but he couldn’t stop. He was too afraid to stop.

But flowers continued to mean something to him. He continued to care, even if he couldn’t express it.

 

***

 

When Marty was nineteen, he stumbled into the men’s room of a battered bar in New Orleans. Drunk, he pulled down his pants, and started to piss in the cracked toilet bowl.

The room was only sparsely lit with flickering neon, which was why it took him a moment to notice the two boys on the other side of the bathroom. They were pressed up against one another, mouths locked in a passionate kiss, hands sliding under fabric and over skin. They hadn’t noticed him.

Marty stared at them, dumbfounded. He felt a hot pulse of something unknown inside him. He shakily did up his fly and fled the bathroom, not looking back. He went to his friends– a motley crew of skinheads and brutes he’d befriended in yet another bar– and told them he wanted to go catch a movie. They left, and Marty did not look back, or tell his friends about the boys in the bathroom. They lit up in the cinema, largely ignored the film in favour of drinking and smoking and chatting, and Marty let the haze of alcohol overtake him in a desperate attempt to scrub what he’d just seen– and realised– from his mind.

He thought about that night for years.

 

***

 

Marty and Maggie.

They sounded like something out of a paperback novel– and, for a while, they were. She was working at a diner when they met, an apron pulled tightly across her hips, fanning out and enhancing the curve of her breasts. The uniform she wore was pastel blue and ironed crisply. She smiled when she took his order, and he held her gaze, grinning in the roguish way that had earned him a reputation in school. When he’d gone to leave, he’d handed her a twenty dollars more than the bill.

“Keep the tip, darlin’,” he’d drawled, “if it means you’ll keep smilin’ like an angel.”

She’d blushed and stroked a wave of brown hair behind her ear. Her face was pale with the creamy complexion of youth, a faint scattering of freckles decorating her cheeks.

“Sure would like to see you come by again sometime,” She said, her soft voice carrying a womanly confidence that he liked. He’d reached over and run a thumb gently down her cheek, watching the way her lips parted and her eyes widened.

“You can bet on it, honey.”

 

***

 

The next time he came to see her, he brought her a single red rose. She’d laughed as she’d taken it, in the delighted way that every girl does when they’re falling in love. He joined the police academy around this time, and he told her so with pride; she liked the way that sounded, enjoyed the authority and maturity of his intentions for the future. They started dating.

He brought her flowers every time he came to the diner. Daisies, often, and daffodils. He liked the way yellow looked against her, liked the way the vibrant colour contrasted with her fair skin and her dark hair. He reached over, one day, sliding a dandelion above her right ear, tucking it beneath her hair.

“My beautiful dandelion,” he’d said, standing up so he could kiss her.

 

***

 

They married too quickly. And, in the typical fashion of whirlwind marriages, their youthful love did not last. They did stay married, however, and in the passing of time Marty saw himself turning into his father. He drank too much. He looked twice at other women. He raised his voice too often, and insults came to him as easily as breathing. After his thirtieth birthday, he raised a hand to Maggie for the first time, and she flinched away, back hitting the wall.

He’d stared at her, horrified. His entire reality collapsed, and he offered no resistance when she slapped him so hard that his lip split.

“I want a divorce,” she snarled.

His cheek was numb. He nodded, and felt himself start to cry.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

The night that Marty and Maggie’s divorce papers were finalised, Marty went and had a drink.

The general consensus among Louisiana cops was that there were no decent pubs where an upstanding brother in blue could go to get a load off properly, without the watchful eyes of higher-ups keeping them in check– and god forbid they drink that heavily around their wives. The truth, however, was that you simply had to know where to look. The Western Inn, a somewhat pathetically named bungalow with creaking doors and forty-watt bulbs, was one such place. There, liquor-soaked, hard-drinking lawmen could indulge all they wanted, safe in anonymity once the warped and rotting front door had closed behind them. It wasn’t actually an inn; it had been, once, but now the rooms out the back were used as stockrooms.

Marty’s very common presence at The Western Inn didn’t inspire any special attention from the other cops. It was only when a fellow barfly– a mildly overweight man named Steve Geraci– noticed how unusually glum he looked that someone aside from the bartender bothered to lean over and greet him.

“Hey, man,” Geraci slurred, the bulge of his stomach straining his tucked-in shirt, “you look like shit.”

Marty gazed into the hazy depths of his beer. “Got divorced today, Steve.”

“Fuck! You’re serious?”

Marty almost wanted to say, _no, I’m fucking with you,_ just to see Geraci frown in dumb confusion.

“Yeah,” he said instead, “we finalised it tonight.”

Geraci’s hand landed hard on Marty’s shoulder, in an expression of mateship and comradery. Marty clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, resisting the urge to swing his fist around to punch Geraci in the teeth. Every single goddamn man he worked with reminded him so much of himself that he wanted to vomit. All his flaws, all his violence, all his hereditary abusiveness– they all had it, in their own individually fucked-up ways. Sometimes it felt like they were an entire generation of men paying for, and inheriting, the sins of the fathers.

“Sorry Marty, that’s a fuckin’ disgrace that is,” Geraci said, too loudly for Marty’s pounding head, “you got kids?”

Marty sighed slowly, the question sparking a twinge of pain in his gut. He’d always wanted children. He’d always wanted to do better than his father had. But Maggie had never been able to get pregnant, and the relief with which he’d accepted her infidelity had made him hate himself even more; despite his aspirations for being a better man, a part of him had always accepted that his path in life was already decided. And, he’d rationalised, why put his kids through the same torture he’d suffered?

A thick combination of shame and alcohol filled Marty’s stomach with gurgling intensity, and he bent over the bar, put his head in his hands. He wondered how he’d gotten here. Thirty years old, in a job he hated, and alone as he’d ever been.

“Did you hear me, Marty? Asked whether you got kids.”

“No. I don’t.”

“Good thing, otherwise she’d have taken the whole fuckin’ pot, y’know what I’m sayin’? The woman always gets the fuckin’ good end of the deal, I tell you. And kids, man, they’re more trouble than they’re fuckin’ worth, believe me.”

Marty lifted his head from his hands, stared in horrified anger at Geraci. Geraci looked back at him with dumb, alcohol-inhibited eyes, his gaze flickering occasionally as he tried to keep focus.

“What’s up, Marty?” Geraci asked, clueless, “you seem pretty gone. Maybe you oughtta head home. You got a place to stay? My couch is always avaliable.”

Marty continued to stare at him. Just as he was starting to rise up off the vinyl barstool, thighs tight as his body anticipated the power it would take to make a dent in Geraci’s nose, a gentle hand landed on the fist that was clenched by his side.

His head swung to the side, where the bartender– a young woman named Rose, who had more balls than almost anyone Marty had ever met– was glaring at him sternly. Her strawberry blonde hair was pulled back loosely, a dishrag over her shoulder, and her knowing eyes made her seem older than she actually was. She’d been working here a while, initially getting the gig to pay off college debts and keep up with rent– and, after college had fallen through, she’d stayed.

“Reckon Marty might wanna drink in peace, Steve,” she said, her voice light and calm with the learned ease of someone who is used to controlling drunks, “What’s say I get you a finger of Grand-dad and a bottle of Bud, on the house, and you give your friend some space. Okay?”

Marty slowly eased himself back down onto the seat. Geraci, who had not noticed Marty’s aborted violence, seemed to be convinced.

“That sounds fair, Rosie, that sounds fair.” He held out a pudgy hand, his palm moistened with the sweat of a heavy drinker and the condensation from the outside of his glass, “You have a good night, Marty, y’hear?”

Marty shook his hand, gripping his knuckles slightly harder than necessary. “Sure, Steve. You too.”

Geraci nodded in some kind of self-congratulatory manner, before waddling away and parking his ass further down the bar. Rose gave Marty a short stare, before she went to go prepare Geraci’s drinks.

By the time she came back, Marty was holding out his now-empty beer glass, looking up at Rose with a tired kind of desperation.

“Thanks,” he said, as she took his glass to refill it, “that probably wouldn’t have ended well.”

She snorted as she pulled down on the tap. “You’d have kicked his ass into next week.”

“Yeah, well, I’m done burnin’ bridges.”

Rose nodded, setting the beer down before him. “Goes without sayin’, but I’m sorry for you, Marty.”

He glared down into the white foam of his drink. “Why? I fucked it up. Seems I always fuck it up.”

“You ain’t gonna cry are you? I can get you some tissues.”

Marty looked up, grinning. “Fuck you, Rose.”

She smiled back sweetly. “Fuck you too.”

 

***

 

The night passed quickly, as nights generally tend to do in a bar as committed to black-out drunkenness as the Western Inn. People came and went, and Marty stayed. Rose and he didn’t talk much, but that was fine; she had work to do, and he was content just sit there and wallow in his misery.

Near to closing, only a few of the really committed drinkers were left, and an old man named Lou walked in.

Lou was nearing seventy, with a sunken face and the sinewy frailty of someone who had worked with his hands his entire life, and had been left with a bad back and knees that would never heal. His cheeks were decorated with the bruised redness that aged alcoholics tend to get, and his white hair was swept back over a visible scalp.

“Hey, Lou,” Marty greeted him with a tired smile, resisting the urge– as he always did– to help Lou to his seat. As old as he was, Lou had the pride of a young man, and the tenacity of an old mule.

“Marty,” Lou greeted him shortly but not unkindly, “you finish up with that divorce business?”

“Yeah.”

Lou patted Marty on the back. Unlike Geraci, his hands were light and gentle, more from old age than anything else. Marty accepted the unspoken condolence with a smile, taking another gulp of his beer. Lou signalled Rose for his usual straight whiskey, and when it was placed in front of him he downed the entire glass in one gulp.

“Another,” he said. Rose, with only a curious raise of her eyebrows, complied.

Marty frowned at Lou. “What’s wrong?”

Lou sighed. His leathery hand, shaking slightly, closed protectively around the next whiskey that was placed before him.

“You know my wife died recently, yeah?”

Marty nodded, not bothering to offer his sympathies. Lou was from a different time, a time when men did not cry openly, and certainly did not talk about how they felt. Lou wasn’t looking for hand-holding.

“I can’t sell her fuckin’ shop. She loved that place. Just want someone who’s gonna take care of it, instead of developing it into apartments or some shit.”

Marty watched the rage in Lou’s eyes, his own emotions seeming trivial in comparison to the depth of loyalty and love that Lou still had for his wife. It made him feel small and worthless, to have acted the way he did around Maggie.

“That sounds rough, Lou.”

“It is, Marty. It fuckin’ is.” Lou had a hard pull of his whiskey, grimacing at the burn.

“What kinda shop did she have?”

“Flower shop, Marty. No one fuckin’ wants to sell flowers.”

There was a flash of a memory in Marty’s mind. The swell of white tulip petals, soft and pristine, growing in the garden before he had picked them. He nodded distractedly, and watched his reflection in the mirror, past bottles and glasses and crude figurines.

The night dragged past, slower now, as Mart began to sober up and think. Lou continued to drink. As Rose was refilling Lou’s fifth whiskey, she asked whether Marty wanted another, and he waved her away absent-mindedly, deep in thought. She shrugged and walked off, leaving to thumb through the cassette tapes stacked beside the juke box, eventually settling on the original 1973 recording of Barry White’s _I’ve Got So Much To Give_. As the music filled the bar, Marty thought about his job. He thought about how much he hated seeing death and violence and destruction and the dredges of fucking humanity, and about how he despised who he was when he worked. He thought about flowers, he thought about kindness, and he thought about his mother’s expression when he’d given her those tulips.

“I’ll buy the shop.”

Lou looked over at him, an eyebrow raised in disbelief. “You what?”

“Yeah,” Marty said, running a hand over his frazzled blond hair, nodding with the excitement of someone making a rash decision, “I’ll do it. I’ll buy the store.”

Lou snorted. Behind the bar, Rose watched with quiet amusement as she cleaned glasses.

“I mean it, Lou. I know about flowers, I really do. Trust me, I can do it. I can do right by your wife, even if I couldn’t do right by mine.”

Lou glared at him then, with sadness in his bloodshot eyes. He drained the rest of his whiskey, and it was plain he thought Marty was mocking him. He slapped fifteen down onto the bar, and regarded Marty with tired exasperation as he stood.

“I mean it,” Marty said desperately, “I really do.”

 “Okay.” Lou turned away. “We’ll see what you say tomorrow, when you’re sober.”

He walked away, and Marty watched him go. He was about to call out to him, but Rose gently touched his shoulder and he turned back to the bar.

“Let him go, Marty,” she said, “he’s hurtin’.”

Marty sighed glumly and resumed drinking.

 

***

 

Rose dragged everyone else out and locked the front door before she walked back behind the bar, poured herself a shot of vodka, and swallowed it straight. She let out a long sigh, pulled up a chair, and sat opposite Marty.

“You’re gonna have to piss off after I’ve finished a good portion of this,” she said as she poured another, “but I like you, and I’m hardly gonna kick your pathetic ass out tonight, so you can stay for now.”

Marty nodded, watching his reflection again. When he didn’t offer a retort or a smartass comment, Rose looked at him with an expression of genuine concern. She knew the depressive drunks off by heart, and Marty was not one of them.

“Get to talkin’,” she said, “we ain’t got all night.”

Marty looked down at his beer. The world was swimming somewhat.

“Maybe they’ve got it right.”

“Who’s that, Marty?”

“All those fuckin’ hippies, always sayin’ masculinity is a toxic force in the world. How it hurts men and everyone ‘round ‘em. Maybe they’re fuckin’ onto somethin’. Whadda they call it? _Hyper_ masculinity or some shit.”

She chuckled humourlessly, and tipped her head back to swallow another shot.

“I coulda told you that ages ago, if you’d fuckin’ asked.”

Marty sighed, rubbed at his eyes. “Yeah, s’pose you’d see a lotta that shit, workin’ in a bar.”

She looked away, smiled sadly. “You wanna know the worst part of it?”

“What’s that?”

“I ain’t never seen anythin’ that’s surprised me. And I’ve been workin’ here five years.”

He looked up at her, eyebrows draw together in an expression of genuine distress. She met his eyes, and he suddenly felt guilty, felt angry on behalf of all the women who’d had to suffer men like him. Men like his father.

“…You’re right. That is fuckin’ sad.” He swallowed. “People often give you a hard time here, Rose?”

She laughed. “Fuck off, you know they do. Hell, even _you_ have.”

He reached across the bar, gripped her hand, seized by the universal drunken desire to fix everything that is broken in the world. He stared into her eyes determinedly, and the self-hatred was so plain his face that she couldn’t look away.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “for anythin’ I ever did. It ain’t right. This world, Rose, it ain’t fuckin’ right.”

Rose smiled, but pulled her hand away. “Good thing I learned long ago that it don’t matter what people say.”

He swayed slightly in his seat, took an unsteady breath. “So it don’t matter if I apologise?”

She considered that, and then poured herself another shot.

“Not really,” she said quietly, “not unless you back it up.”

Marty watched her drink the shot, hating seeing yet another tired, world-wearied woman, older than her years. He closed his eyes, tormented.

“Go home, Marty,” she sighed, throat raw with the burn of vodka, “You’ll be back to normal tomorrow.”

“Maybe I don’t wanna go back to normal, Rose. Maybe I wanna change.”

“Guess that’s your choice,” she replied, voice hard with the emotional distance of someone who has learned not to trust others, “ain’t no one can help you but yourself, Marty.”

 

***

 

Rose escorted Marty outside with a hand on his shoulder, hauling him by his jacket fibres. As the taxi– that she’d called– pulled up, Marty turned to her.

“I’m gonna change,” he whispered, “I’m gonna buy that shop, and I’m gonna be a new man.”

She nodded. “Sure, Marty. Sure.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Rust Cohle sat back in his chair and considered the overflowing desk before him.

His latest project, a torso design featuring a fierce tiger, was in pieces, scattered between pages and sketchbooks and photographs. His small studio space was cluttered with paper, with finished drawings and half-completed sketches; even the walls were covered with old projects. Several coffee-stained mugs were dotted around the desk, holding down piles of paper so the gentle wind through the open window wouldn’t uproot anything. A can of Lone star, sawed in half by the swift slice of a switchblade, held a number of paintbrushes– the other half of the can was full of cigarettes that had been smoked right down to the filter.

The studio seemed to be a modern reincarnation of the workrooms of the old masters, of Da Vinci and Raphael and such. Rust’s drawings displayed exceptional skill; the smooth, elegant faces of geishas had been crafted with meticulous, loving attention, and the roaring tiger staring out from Rust’s latest drawings seemed as if it might leap from the paper at any moment. Its ferocity, rendered with intense abandon, held the gaze of viewers in the hypnotising manner of an actual predator. The fact that Rust Cohle was sought after by nearly the whole of America was validated by the smooth grace with which his lines flowed and curved, showing a talent that was too extraordinary to be anything but inborn.

Rust looked down and met the eyes of the tiger. He considered the black gaze, the open jaw, the vicious teeth. His opinion of his own work was utterly obscured by the expressionless of his handsome face. He continued to watch the tiger, eyes hooded as he lit yet another cigarette.

The room was quiet. Rust didn't play music while he worked.

He was dressed in dirty jeans and a tight white singlet, a wave of curled brown hair loosely hanging over his forehead. The lingering stench of cigarette smoke, the slovenly way in which he was dressed, the disarray of the room– it ought to have been a repellent scene, but the beauty of the drawings, and of the man himself, overcame that.

Many people had said that the talents of Rustin Cohle were wasted, working in a tiny store with only one assistant. He’d turned down multiple offers for television documentaries, but could not escape the fanatics that showed up to his store almost daily, demanding to meet him and get either an autograph or a tattoo– or to become his apprentice. He, much to his displeasure, was famous. Still, his celebrity status in the tattooing world was to the advantage of _Cohle’s Tattoo Parlour;_ he was booked out for three months, and tattoo requests continued to pour in.

Rust rose from his seat with the coiled slowness of someone who hasn’t moved for several hours, and stretched his arms above his head. Both arms were covered with tattoos down to his wrists; elegant birds, the species of which no one could guess, flew in an endless loop of movement, lines defined and graceful. The birds’ faces seemed gaunt and almost skeletal, but there was a beauty about them that made people pause and stare, captivated by the way wings curved around the shape of Rust’s muscular arms.

He’d sworn to his assistant many times that if one more person asked what his tattoos meant, he’d probably kill them.

It was never clear whether he was being literal or not.

Rust tiredly ran both hands over his face, closed the window, and made his way out into the small kitchenette that was attached at the back of the store. He flicked the switch on the kettle, got out two mugs.

“You want a coffee, Jake?” He called out, already preparing the coffee in anticipation of his assistant’s answer.

“Sure, thanks,” came the yelled reply from the front counter.

Jake, actually named Jaqueline, was a nineteen year-old girl with a buzzcut, who exclusively wore leather no matter the weather or time of year. She was diligent, for her age, and intelligent enough that Rust enjoyed having her in the parlour. He could’ve had his pick of any apprentice in the country, but he liked Jake. He found her rejection of femininity endearing, and he liked the scorn with which she judged anything mainstream. Rust wasn’t impressed by the punk movement in of itself, but he found he didn’t mind Jake’s approach to social rebellion.

Sometimes, in the quiet moments when the softness of her cheeks would betray her youth and innocence, he would be reminded of his own daughter. He would wonder what kind of young woman she would've grown up to become.

Rust poured the coffee, cigarette hanging from his lips. After stirring two spoonfuls of sugar into Jake's mug, he strode out to the front of the store. It was a small space, but there was enough room for a front counter that doubled as a display cabinet, a set of couches for customers to wait on, a table of needles and tattooing equipment, and the reclinable tattooing chair itself. Jake was sitting with her feet propped up on the counter, boots laced up to her knees. She was reading _The Philosophy of Punk: More Than Noise_ , and Rust’s mouth quirked into an amused smile.

“Thanks,” she said, taking her mug from his long fingers, “you should read this book, man.”

“What’s it about?” he asked patiently, even though he already knew. He’d read it when it’d been released. Still, he sat on the tattered leather stool beside her, and set his coffee down on the counter.

She started to explain, in animated voice that gradually rose in pitch as she lost the intentionally lower tone she usually used to effect an idea of toughness. He nodded at the appropriate intervals, hummed in agreement when she sought a response. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about what she was saying; it was simply that he’d heard it all before, and the anthem of punk rebellion wasn’t one he personally subscribed to.

But Rust was a lonely man. He had a social circle limited to clients and people he passed in the grocery store; he didn't have friends, lovers, acquaintances, or even a family to call his own.

Having someone to talk to was, quite honestly, the main reason he kept Jake around.

While she was speaking, he let his gaze drift towards the front windows of the store. Across the street, he could see Lou standing in the doorway of his departed wife’s flower shop; he was handing a set of keys to a younger, shorter man, and shaking his hand. Rust considered the newcomer with interest. He had a friendly smile and the easeful posture of an approachable guy. His clothes suggested he was relatively well-off, and he moved with the confidence of a man who knew he looked good. Rust looked him up and down, noting the snub nose Smith and Wesson revolver strapped to his jeans; it could’ve just been personal protection, but Rust knew a cop when he saw one.

“Who’s movin’ in?” he asked, lifting his cigarette to his lips.

Jake, who had been in the middle of a rant on how mainstream media had ‘defanged the beast’, looked out the window and shrugged.

“Dunno,” she said, “they were here earlier this morning. Think Lou might be selling up.”

Rust continued to watch the man across the street. There was something compelling about him.

Rust was filled, suddenly, by the impulse that he should approach this stranger. It was a rare feeling for him, one that he hadn’t experienced since he’d first met his ex-wife. He blinked in surprise, feeling an unexpected swell of shyness, a blush of heat in his face.

He turned away from the windows and picked up his coffee, smoothly exhaling a plume of smoke. Anyone else might’ve missed the hesitation in his movements, the slight pink tinge to his cheeks. But Jake, attuned to his subtle mannerisms, grinned.

“D’you think he’s cute?” She asked.

Rust met her eyes with deadpan expressionlessness, glaring in a way that would've scared most people to death.

She grinned wider.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

It was far too easy for Marty to walk away from the CID. He almost found himself wishing that his boss and his colleagues would at least try and persuade him to stay, but the announcement of his resignation only seemed to inspire demands that they take him out for one last ‘wild night with the boys’.

Just another excuse to get drunk.

He went with them, but his heart wasn’t in it. They told stories about him, about the cases he’d solved over the years and the shenanigans that had ensued along the way, and he found himself listening from a distance, smiling uneasily and blaming his discomfort on being upset at leaving. Their roaring enthusiasm deafened him, and he was jostled frequently by friendly punches and manly, two-pat hugs. He drank less than they did, and watched them. Watched inhibitions disappear down their throats in the guise of poisonous liquor, watched their faces redden and their laughter become thunderous, animalistic, frightening. Watched the way the waitresses looked down at them, with tired eyes and pitying, unimpressed smiles. Watched the way the rest of the bar, stumbling like zombies who’d crawled from their graves, raised their glasses in approval and hollered indecipherable praise.

Alcoholics saluting alcoholics. A circle of never-ending fucking misery.

The youngest waitress, who couldn’t have been older than eighteen, hadn’t learned the ways of her older colleagues. When she came to take the empty glasses and refill them, her shoulders were tense with fear, her soft face stressed and scared. Marty watched her, and felt a deep swell of anger. Anger at the men around him, at the other waitresses who stood behind the bar and laughed at this poor girl and her inexperience. He found himself mourning the loss of her innocence, because he knew she would eventually become guarded and hard; he knew she would have no choice. Marty thought of Rose. He wondered who she’d been once, before she’d grown to be wise beyond her years and tired as someone on their deathbed. He thought of how _he’d_ been when he was young, and what kind of person he’d become now that he was an adult man.

He was angry at the world. At the state of it all.

 _Maybe,_ he thought, _children should run this fucking planet. Adults aren't good for shit._

Around ten o’clock, after an hour of trading stories and glorifying the nightmare of their employment, Marty stood, shaking hands off him.

“Gonna call it a night, boys,” he said, slapping a few notes down onto the table. The fact he didn’t sway when he stood up made him feel proud, and he left his beer half-drunk on the table.

“At least finish your beer!”

“This is the last time we’ll see you, motherfucker, stay for a bit longer!”

“I’ll be around,” he said with a forced grin, “you’ll see me again.”

Knowing full well that he was lying through his teeth– but that his friends were too smashed to notice– he turned his back on them, ignored their stunned remarks and irritated demands that he return, and walked up to the young waitress.

“Yes?” She squeaked, eyes big and frightened, “is there something wrong, sir?”

“No.” He produced a fifty, gently took her hand, and pressed the note into her palm. He held her gaze and smiled sadly. “Take care of yourself, sweetheart. Not sure you’re cut out for this job.”

She looked down at the fifty, blinked, and then looked up again.

He let go of her hand and left.

 

***

 

Two days later, he shook Lou’s hand on the stoop of his new store. He’d nearly emptied one of his bank accounts on the purchase, but it’d been worth it.

“You sure you wanna do this?” Lou asked, his face sceptical.

Marty grinned. “Fuckin’ am, Lou.”

Lou smiled, then, in a way Marty’s father never had, and Marty felt so full of happiness that he was sure he could accomplish anything.

 

***

 

The store's structure looked much the same, Marty imagined, as it always had. There were no flowers in the stands, and the air was filled with the itchy smell of settled dust, but the floor was large and there were sturdy locks on the windows; it was a secure and well thought-out building. Marty surveyed the space, nodding to himself as Lou opened the blinds and unlocked the windows. The walls were painted in a soft cream colour, the colour likely used to give full life to the flowers that would usually be on display throughout the store. Even the outside of the shop was the same gentle cream, the words _Louisiana’s Best Florist_ painted in a calming baby blue. The handwritten _For Sale_ posters that had been on the windows were crumpled up in Marty’s right fist.

“I’ve still got the details of all the old companies that…” Lou paused, emption seeping into his gruff, cigarette hoarsened tone, “…that Gale used to buy from. They’re willin' to deal with you.”

Marty nodded, dutifully not commenting on the tremor that shook through Lou’s voice as he spoke his wife’s name– for the first time, Marty imagined, since she’d died. He’d avoided it before now. He inhaled slowly, caught the gentle scent of flowers that lingered though the room was empty.

They stood together, for a moment, in the middle of the store. Marty didn’t need to look at Lou to know there was pain in his eyes.

“This place was… everythin' to her.” Lou whispered. “Everythin'.”

Marty nodded again.

“You better take care of this shop, Marty. Or, so help me, I’ll fuckin' kill you.”

Marty smiled. The threat, for some reason, warmed his heart, and the weight of responsibility didn’t frighten him. He was excited to be starting a new chapter in his life. Beginning again, leaving all the mess behind. And what better place to start than in a store built on love, built on hard work and years of commitment? Carrying the legacy of a good woman in his hands?

“I told you, Lou. I’ll do right by her. I’ll do right by your wife.”

There was not one part of him that was lying.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Rust watched the newcomer move into the store.

It was almost funny, seeing an ex-cop chatting with old ladies and deliverymen, his lean body occupying the very doorway where Gale used to stand, rickety and unsteady in her old age. Rust hadn’t talked to the Gale much, but she’d come over occasionally and offered the tattoo parlour free flowers, apparently not at all intimidated the way almost everyone else seemed to be around Rust. He’d liked her. He hadn’t told her that, which he regretted now.

The blond man charmed every single person that came to the shop. Gale’s regular customers, at first apprehensive that a stranger would be running their dear friend’s store, quickly became amiable. Rust noticed the signs; quick touches to the newcomer’s arm, loud laughter that could be heard from across the street, and gestures to their cars as they invited the newcomer over for tea. This guy was good.

Rust was trying to figure out whether the newcomer had any ulterior motives, mostly because he couldn’t imagine why any middle-aged man would be interested in taking over a florist’s business.

Or. That was what he told himself.

The truth was that the man’s eyes, his kind grin, his gentle posture and calmly folded hands, fascinated Rust. He wanted to hold those hands, pull off those clothes to discover what was underneath, kiss that smiling mouth. He wanted to grasp that blond hair, feel it between his fingers as they fucked. His imagination, usually dulled by depression and quieted by alcohol, was suddenly vivid and heated, filled with imagined gasps and moans. He wanted to know what this man's voice sounded like. He wanted to feel lips on his skin and breaths against his cheek.

Rust Cohle had spent most of his life accepting the fact that he would never need relationships the way other people did– hell, he barely ever had sex either these days. Which was why this attraction, this undeniable and utterly immediate desire, was so shocking to him.

He didn't know what to do.

 

***

 

“You could just go and talk to him, you know.”

Rust, sprawled on the parlour’s tattered leather couches, a cigarette between his fingers and a hand dangling between his spread legs, ignored Jake. He was gazing out the window as he waited for his next client to arrive. The newcomer was helping deliverymen unload flowers from a garishly patterned van. The first delivery.

“I’m sure he’d like to be welcomed to the neighbourhood,” Jake continued, grinning from where she sat, feet propped up on the counter. If Rust looked towards her, which he didn’t, he’d be able to see up her leather skirt. Not that he wanted to. Not that she really gave a shit, either.

“He already has been.” Rust replied calmly, taking a drag from his cigarette. “By every damn person for miles.”

“Yeah, but he hasn’t been welcomed by you.”

“So?”

“So, you’re hot. He might like you too.”

Rust did turn and look at her then, but only her face. He raised an eyebrow, expressing more dry sarcasm in his expression than most people could ever convey with words.

“What? You are.” She held out her ring-adorned hands in a mock display of innocence. She was wearing her leather jacket and heavy black eyeshadow, which was hilarious given it was the sweltering height of summer, and a faded grey t-shirt that said _Fuck ‘Em And Their Law!_

He turned back the window, disinterested in looking up her skirt. Most men in his position, he was sure, would’ve slept with Jake by now. She dressed in clothes that attempted to hide her curvaceous body, but Rust had seen the way his clients looked at her, and he knew– objectively– that she was quite attractive. He’d taken more than one man out the back of the parlour and given them a black eye for leering too hard or attempting to feel Jake up. She acted tough, but she was only young. Rust couldn’t help but see himself as some kind of demented, chainsmoking, depressive imitation of a father figure.

The desire to protect always had been his weakness.

“Tell you what,” Jake sat forward, legs falling off the counter, her boots landing with a hard thud on the tile floor, “if you go over there, right now, I’ll give you twenty bucks.”

Rust let out a quiet snort of amusement, watching as the blond buy bent over and picked up two boxes. He would’ve been lying if he said his eyes didn’t linger on that fine ass. He’d also have been lying if he said a spark of anxiety didn’t twinge in his chest at the prospect of crossing the road to start up a conversation.

“Go on, do it. Wear your leather jacket, too,” she said as she dug around in her pockets, “It makes you look sexy as hell.”

“It’s way too fuckin’ hot out there to be wearin’ leather. I ain’t batshit like you, Jake.”

“Whatever, dude! Just go talk to him! You’re acting like a pre-schooler with a crush!”

Rust sighed, and drew in another lungful of smoke. The texture of paper felt comforting and familiar against his lips.

He liked the relationship he had with Jake. He liked the way she respected his skill and superiority as a tattooist, but he especially liked the way she wasn’t afraid to push him around. She treated him like a friend, which was something very rare for him. She’d even invited him out to hang with her skinhead crew, once or twice, but Rust had politely declined, cringing internally at the thought of being surrounded by so many youths.

“Come on, dude.” Jake produced a twenty from her pocket and waved it at him. “Look, money. Go talk to the hot man.”

Rust chewed on the inside of his mouth. He watched the man enter the store with the boxes. He slowly rose up off the couch, crushing his cigarette in the dirty ashtray that sat on the arm of the couch. Without dignifying Jake’s immaturity with a reply, he walked over to her, grabbed the twenty dollars, and put it in his pocket.

Ignoring Jake’s sarcastic victory cheer, he opened the parlour door and strode out onto the street.

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Marty stood behind the flower store counter and beamed so wide his cheeks hurt.

His first delivery. At _his_ store. Fuck, he’d never have guessed that twenty boxes of flowers would make him so damn happy. He felt like he’d accomplished something big, that this was the beginning of something good. Finally, he’d have a job that didn’t require him to look at corpses and try to be objective about the depth of inhumanity in the world. He wouldn’t have to go home to a wife and paste on a smile, try to be happy for her benefit, try to quell the sinking feeling of despair in him and forget the gruesome things he’d seen.

Marty thought of his mom, and his grin grew wider. He’d spent most of his life avoiding remembering her, sure that she would be ashamed of him and who he’d become– but now, he was certain she’d be proud. He raised his eyes up, imagined her looking down at him, smiling in that patient way she always had. Bright blue eyes crinkling with soft affection.

 _I’m gonna be good, mom,_ he thought, _I’m ain’t gonna turn into him._

He nodded contentedly to himself, and just as he was about to step out onto the shop floor and start arranging the flowers on the display stands, the bell by the entrance made a quiet _ding_ as the front door swung open _._ He looked up, expecting that one of the old ladies from down the road had come to invite him out to tea again.

Instead, a man stepped through the door. Marty blinked, stunned into silence.

The guy looked like a fucking model. He was lean and muscular, with lazily mussed hair, arms covered in tattoos, a white singlet clinging to every inch of his torso. Marty’s mouth went dry as he saw the strip of skin exposed by the singlet riding up, just above the waistband of faded jeans. He forced his eyes upwards, to meet the lethargically hooded stare of this stranger, and couldn’t help but freeze, torn between nervousness and stunned awe at the expressionless _power_ in his gaze.

“…Hey.” Marty forced himself to smile. “You, uh… You work in the tattoo place across the street?”

The man nodded. The movement drew attention to his sharp jawline. Marty tried not to let his eyes wander down to the muscular curves of his defined shoulders.

“I do,” he replied, voice a quiet drawl as he strode forward, “Came to welcome you to the neighbourhood.”

He stepped up to the other side of the counter, held out an elegant hand.

“Rust Cohle,” he said.

Marty had to jerk himself into action. He shook the offered hand, grinning unconvincingly, feeling slightly faint at the strong grip that encircled his hand. The man– _Rust,_ whatever kind of name that was– was standing so damn close that Marty was utterly spellbound by his handsomely masculine features. He felt like he was nineteen again, standing in a bar, faced with an emotion he didn’t understand, confused and scared by the way his heart was beating hard enough to make him tremble. The memory of two boys kissing flashed vividly in his mind.

 _You’re a fuckin’ adult,_ he reminded himself as he pulled his hand away, _calm the fuck down._

“I’m Marty. Marty Hart. Good t’meet you.” Marty cleared his throat, “Rust Cohle… ain’t I heard that name before?”

Rust shrugged, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jeans. His every movement seemed slow, unhurried, and Marty liked him already. Fuck, he looked like the kind of guy who wasn't afraid of anything.

“Yeah. You probably have.”

Marty nodded as if he knew what that meant. Rust didn’t seem to take the hint, until Marty raised his eyebrows curiously.

“I’m, uh,” Rust waved a hand lazily through the air, fingers long and graceful, “known. My work is, anyway.”

Marty nodded again, feeling his cheeks burn. He hadn’t had a conversation this awkward since school.

“Oh, cool,” he replied uselessly, gesturing to Rust’s tattoos, “They your designs?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re pretty nice.” Marty used the topic of conversation as an excuse to stare at Rust’s arms, at the curves of muscle and lean strength. “Don’t it hurt, though? Gettin' tattoos that big?”

Rust smiled wryly, a dry expression that barely touched his eyes. “You ain’t got any ink yourself, I take it.”

Marty laughed. “Nah. Too much of a pussy.”

Rust laughed too. Or, he let out a breath of sound that Marty assumed was his equivalent of laughter. There was a beat of silence so awkward that Marty wanted to punch himself in the face, before Rust turned away from the counter, wandering towards a heap of open boxes clustered by the shop’s central display stand.

“You’re a cop, right?”

Marty, who’d been struggling to find something to say, blinked in surprise.

“…Yeah, I was,” he replied uneasily, “Why? You got a problem with cops?”

Rust made that sound again, the one that was probably laughter. Marty watched his back, swallowed thickly at the sight of muscles moving below tight fabric.

“Yeah,” Rust murmured, “somethin’ like that.”

Marty bit the inside of his cheek. He had no idea who this guy was, and it was quite possible that his dick was doing all the thinking here. He steadied himself on the counter, took a slow breath. People who had issues with police always made him wary.

“Why?” He asked.

Rust glanced over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised. “I ain’t no fuckin’ con, man, relax. I used to be a cop too.”

Marty’s eyebrows shot up his forehead, and Rust turned back to the flowers.

 _Shit,_ he thought, _didn’t see that one coming._

“…Really?”

Rust reached into a box and picked up a bouquet; a small blue arrangement of belladonna, muscari, scabiosa, veronica, and hyacincth flowers. Marty couldn’t help but watch the movement, the way the muscles of Rust’s arm shifted.

“Does that surprise you?” Rust tilted his head as he considered the bouquet.

“No, I just… I meant no offence, man, you just…” Marty wanted to kick himself. Christ, why the fuck was he acting so awkward? “…You don’t seem the type. Or somethin’.”

Rust turned back towards the counter, face just as expressionless as before. He held up the bouquet– the blue flowers contrasting hilariously with his tough, tattooed appearance– and looked blankly at Marty.

“How much?”

“Uh.” Marty hadn’t had a chance to start pricing anything yet. “…Ten, I think. Maybe.”

Rust reached into his pocket, produced a twenty, and handed it over. Marty took it, grinning.

“What?” Rust asked flatly.

“You’re my first.” Marty’s smile faltered as he realised how that sounded. “My- My first customer, I mean.”

Rust smiled then, properly, eyes softening. Marty blushed furiously and busied himself with putting the twenty into the till.

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” Marty muttered dully, a litany of curses filling his thoughts.

Rust held out a hand again, leaning forward slightly, still smiling. Marty looked up and felt so helpless, so fucking swept off his feet. This fucking man, with his fucking face and his fucking body… Christ. Marty wanted to run away, or reach across the counter and grab him, pull him into a hard kiss. He’d thought he could deny that night in the bar, when he’d realised who he was, who he was attracted to. But, as he stood there, he realised there was no way he could shove this back down inside him. Years of denial and repression, years of a determined façade, torn to pieces in seconds by this beautiful stranger.

“Good to meet you, man,” Rust said.

Marty shook his hand. “You too. Thanks for stoppin’ by.”

Rust let go, much to Marty’s disappointment, and gave a curt nod before turning away and leaving. Marty watched him go, gaze drifting downwards to linger on Rust’s ass. The jeans, baggy at the back, couldn’t hide how pert and lean his body was.

The door closed with a _ding._

Marty stood in stunned silence, frozen to the spot.

His heart was hammering. His face felt too hot, his skin too tight over his cheeks. He drew in an unsteady breath and wondered how the fuck he was going to survive working in this damn store when the pinnacle of human attractiveness was working right across the fucking road.

 

***

 

Rust walked back into the parlour, the bouquet in his fist. Jake watched him from behind the counter, grinning.

“What’re those?” She asked slyly.

“Flowers.” Rust replied flatly. He ignored her delighted coo, walking with notable haste towards his studio.

He closed the door behind him, found a glass, set the flowers into it, and then sat down in his chair. He put his head in his hands to hide the uncontrollably giddy smile on his face.

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Rust Cohle lived alone.

His home, though he didn’t associate any comforting feelings with the term, was a cracked and cheap apartment that may as well have been housing a squatter for all the care with which he personalised his rooms. His walls were bare, off-white paint occasionally interrupted by dents or scratches; a product of late-night binges and years of neglect. Above his bed, which was an uncomfortable mattress on the floor, hung a black cross, on which the figure of Jesus was crucified. It did seem appropriate– the way in which Rust disregarded his own wellbeing had a sense of dramatic martyrdom about it. His kitchen was sparsely stocked, and he didn’t have anything sweet or enjoyable in his fridge. He drank hard liquor straight, and bought beer that was bitter and strong.

God forbid he allow himself the small pleasures in life.

Usually, when he woke up, he opened his eyes and apathetically regarded the ceiling, lay still while the morning sun made its slow way over the horizon. Around this time, his neighbours would start to rise. He would hear them moving about, and wonder what their lives were like. He would wonder whether they felt this way too, whether normal people experienced such intense and inescapable feelings of emptiness.

He knew he had depression, but he convinced himself he was managing it. He had the tattoo parlour, which gave him purpose and something to fill his days with. He had Jake to fill the silence. He was going through the motions, but he was still alive. That was enough. That was all he could stand to manage.

Then, he would sit up, light a cigarette, and smoke until he could convince himself it was worth leaving the apartment at all.

Then he would dress in whatever clothes happened to be lying around, and splash some water through his hair. Very rarely did he look in the mirror. Whenever he did, he would only feel more angry and helpless, because he knew he had a body that most men would kill for. He knew he was attractive. And he wished that it mattered to him more, wished that he could meet his own gaze in the mirror and like what he saw in those eyes. He wished he could walk down the street confidently, like a man who wanted people to notice him.

But he didn’t feel any connection with his own body. He was a stranger, wearing some kind of foreign skin, uncomfortable whenever women sidled up to him or touched his arm, whenever men sized him up and gave him the side-eye. He didn’t want to be noticed. He didn’t want to be touched. He was secluded in a cold, constricting shell, and that was where he wanted to stay. He was miserable, alone, and angry, but at least he was familiar with isolation.

At least he knew what it meant.

 

***

 

This morning was different.

Rust opened his eyes and, feeling an anticipation that was utterly new to him, rolled onto his side and blinked lethargically at the flowers he’d brought home. They sat a foot or so away from his mattress, dimly beautiful in the morning light. Blue, the colour of purity, of nature and water. The colour of life.

He smiled.

It was a small, tender expression, but it was a revolutionary addition to his usual morning routine. He felt a warm glow inside him, a hum of heat behind his ribs as his heart beat a little harder. He thought of Marty. He thought of the warm grasp of a hand, the blush upon cheeks, hesitant laughter. He thought of relaxed conversation and a person utterly removed from all the misery and shit that Rust had suffered throughout his years. He was sure he’d made a fool out of himself yesterday; he always had been too guarded, too hard to read, too expressionless. But he couldn’t bring himself to care.

It’d taken a gargantuan effort to walk into that store and introduce himself, and the fact he’d done it inspired a spark of bravery in him. Maybe he’d do it again. Maybe he’d invite Marty over for a beer.

He lay there and imagined doing it. Imagined relaxing with someone the way he knew his neighbours did, imagined laughing about things that didn’t matter, imagined easy conversation and casual smiles. He imagined having a friend.

Then, he imagined a kiss. A timid meeting of lips, a short breath of contact.

Rust's smile grew, and he turned his face into his pillow.

He hadn’t felt like this for a very, very long time. He’d been certain he never would again, not since the funeral of his wife and child. But, lying in bed, peeking out from his pillow at the flowers, he wasn’t thinking of them. The despair and horror at their loss existed somewhere very far away, that darkness overpowered by brighter emotions. He felt years younger, sweetly embarrassed by the affection that filled him.

“Marty,” he whispered quietly. Tasting the name. Enjoying the way it sounded when it left his mouth, pressed into fabric.

The sound of his own voice propelled him into action. For the first time in years, he got out of bed with energy already humming through his body. He went to the kitchen, ate a short breakfast, and then he returned to his bedroom, stood in front of the full-length mirror as he dressed and patted down his hair.

It was only when he left for the parlour that he realised he hadn’t needed a cigarette to start the day.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

Jake was at her usual post behind the parlour counter when Rust walked in.

The moment she saw him, she squinted in suspicion. His clothes actually looked clean and presentable– in fact, if he were anyone else, she’d have even said they were ironed. Her eyes widened in absolute shock when she noticed his hair was damp and swept to the side, as he’d _deliberately_ taken notice of what he looked like. Which would have necessitated, she assumed, him actually looking into a mirror.

Her gaze moved down to the two coffees he held in his hands. Cardboard cups. From _Starbucks._

“Did you get laid or something?”

He set one coffee down on the counter without replying, sauntering off to his office. He raised his left hand, flipping her off; she grinned, returning the gesture to his back.

 

***

 

Jake decided to leave him alone until lunch, after he was done with his first client. The woman was getting a butterfly tattoo over the massive appendix scar on her abdomen, and it was obviously hurting her more than she’d have expected; usually, Rust would’ve ignored the pained noises she was making, and just continued on with his work. But today he was oddly gentle and affectionate. He kept pausing and asking whether the woman was alright, his voice low and quiet.

It was almost erotic, seeing his large gloved hands moving gently over the woman’s skin, more tender than usual. Jake saw him as a father, mostly, but when he was like this, when his roughness and apathy gave way to tenderness… shit, did she wish she was a little older. Or maybe a little stupider, like her friends at school who had affairs with teachers.

Not that he’d have gone in for that anyway. She’d never even known him to have relationships with people his _own_ age, which was why this newfound good mood made her so suspicious. The idea that he’d just spent the morning with a friend or something was even more impossible and ridiculous. Jake decided it had to be about the flower guy, the one across the road.

She watched Rust from the counter until he was done. He guided the woman to a mirror with a hand on the small of her back. She cried, as people often do when they see large tattoos for the first time, especially if they're covering a scar. Ordinarily, Rust would’ve stood far apart from her, hands tight by his sides, face set in rigid discomfort. But today he stood close to her, a hand on her shoulder. He even let his lips twitch into a semblance of a smile.

It was obvious that he was trying. Putting in the effort to stay happy, not to resist it and retreat back into his usual gloominess.

The thought made Jake smile a little.

It also made her pause and realise that, maybe, teasing him wouldn’t be the best idea.

 _I'll just let him have a good day,_ she decided, _it’s so fucking rare._

So, when the client had left, she started cleaning up equipment with Rust, and didn’t say a word. They worked in silence, and she could feel Rust’s gratitude like a gentle, loving thing between them.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Marty’s first week was hectic as fuck.

He hadn’t worked in retail since he was a kid, and back then any stress from customers had been utterly mitigated by the fact that he and all his co-workers were high. It took him a while to get back into the swing of things.

But he was used to challenges. And the absence of violence, of drug and alcohol-related conflict, of murderers and abusers, made adapting seem almost easy. After two days he remembered the prices of all the flowers, and he was already starting to make a list of the flowers he’d need include in the next order. He decided not to buy bouquets next time; better that he arrange individual flowers himself. He liked the arrangements that had come in, but he figured he could do better.

He experimented when there were no customers. Put together arrangements, tested which colours and flowers went together, trying to remember what his mom had told him. All the while he found himself smiling, comfortable with the silence, with the calm. It was nice to be by himself. To take his time.

A year ago, if someone had’ve told him that he’d be selling flowers, he’d have laughed and told them to go fuck themselves. Then he’d probably have made some homophobic quip about masculinity, hating himself for saying it but feeling obligated all the same.

Marty was excited to leave that mindset behind. Every time he held a flower he did so gently, carefully, with an affection he had been certain had died in his childhood.

He liked the customers well enough. Dolly had come by twice in one week, favouring pink arrangements and white clusters of daisies and roses. She held the bouquets in her frail, gently shaking hands, and Marty had felt a deep swell of remorse as he took her money. She reminded him too much of his mom.

The other customers were all nice, he supposed, but he found himself glancing out the windows periodically, over at the brick building across the street that had _Cohle’s Tattoo Parlour_ in faded neon.

He’d looked Rust Cohle up on the internet, and been absolutely stunned. He’d been sure that he’d heard the name somewhere before, but this was something else. The guy was fucking _famous._ And his drawings were absolutely spectacular; the sort of stuff that Marty couldn’t even imagine being able to create, let alone tattoo on someone. Fuck, he could barely even draw a stick figure.

He thought of Rust’s hands. Thought of his long, elegant fingers, his calloused palms. He imagined those hands carefully designing tattoos, delicately crafting curves and lines and shapes, and the thought was… nice.

Really nice.

Marty had never looked at a man like this before. He’d never let himself. But all he wanted to do was slide his hands over that tight body, massage that brown skin… he wanted Rust to touch him, too. He wanted to feel a man’s hands against him, wanted to be held by someone strong. Wanted to be pressed up against the wall like that boy had been, in that bar.

After his third day working at the flower store, he’d gone home and touched himself. Given in, for the first time in his life, to dreams of men. He’d allowed his mind to fill with memories of those hooded eyes, that mysterious gaze, that sharp face. He’d let gasps fall freely from his lips, louder and louder, until there was a whine building in his throat, his eyes closed tightly.

After he’d come, something had changed. He’d lay in bed, feeling… relieved.

As if he could finally stop fighting.

 

***

 

Rust had been designing same tattoo for an entire day now. He was starting to get frustrated.

All he’d wanted to do, all week, was cross the damn road and go visit Marty. But, while he could beat the life out of someone within the blink of an eye, the thought of casually socialising was… horrifying.

He crumpled up the piece of paper he'd been working on, crushing it tight between his palms and fingers. He hurled it smoothly towards the overflowing bin in the corner of the room, where it missed and landed on the floor. He turned back to the desk, put his head in his hands, and sighed loudly. He really needed a cigarette, but he'd run out hours ago.

“Rust?”

He looked up, frowning. His expression went slack when he found himself staring up at Marty; he was standing in the doorway, dressed in a loose pale blue shirt and tan slacks, looking positively pedestrian with Jake standing behind him in her all-black attire. Rust saw Marty’s gaze move up and down, and he swallowed hard, realising what a slob he must look like in his unwashed singlet and his dirty jeans.

“Hi,” Marty said, his face bright with a wide grin. Behind him, Jake gave a small smirk, and then turned to leave.

“Hello.” Rust replied. He stood, self-consciously pulling up his jeans by the belt loops, smoothing down the front of his singlet. “How’s the store?”

“Great, great. Did you like the flowers?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I…” Rust paused, “…took ‘em home.”

Marty nodded. He seemed pleased, and Rust looked away. He was almost thankful for his hard exterior and his expressionless face; at least his shy blush didn’t show.

“I was just, uh,” Marty gestured aimlessly, “gonna ask if you wanted to grab a beer or somethin’.”

Rust blinked. He looked back at Marty, feeling confused.

“Unless you don’t want to?” Marty hedged. “Sorry man, you’re obviously busy-”

“No, that’s…” Rust cleared his throat. “That sounds good. Sure.”

Marty’s grin returned, and Rust felt himself smiling too, felt an impossible warmth building in his chest. The same warmth that he’d felt all week, every time he looked at those flowers. They’d wilted and drooped from the heat, but he hadn’t had the heart to throw them out.

“…Okay. Well, d’you…” Marty made a vague shrugging motion, laughing as he rubbed at his neck, “…have any recommendations? ‘Bout places to go? I ain’t been around much yet.”

“Lafitte’s Bar.” Rust reached over, snagged his leather jacket from where it was hanging over the back of his chair. It was getting cold at night, lately. “It’s just down the road, if you wanna follow me in your car.”

“Sounds good, Rust. Real good.”

Rust draped his jacket over his arm. He gestured for Marty to go through the doorway first, and then watched him go for a moment, breath caught in his throat, before he followed.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

After a detour to a corner store so Rust could buy some cigarettes, Marty followed Rust’s truck to a small, but well-populated and brightly lit, drinking den. The words _Lafitte’s Bar_ were displayed in cursive neon letters, and he thought of Rose for a moment, smiling to himself. He hadn’t been back and seen her yet, told her that he’d actually bought the store like he'd said he would. He made a mental note to do that soon. He wanted to see her expression.

Marty got out of the car. Rust was waiting for him by the hood of his truck, face lit by the warm glow of a lighter, hands cupped around his cigarette. Marty swallowed hard. The scene may as well have been out of a fucking noir film, and he was genuinely worried about how he could manage to hold a conversation with someone so fucking beautiful.

Rust tipped back his head, the glow of neon slipping across his skin, and inhaled deeply. He pulled the cigarette from his mouth and brought his gaze back down to stare at Marty with unreadable eyes.

“You want one?”

Marty shook his head, and Rust slipped the packet of smokes into his pocket. He turned towards the bar, and Marty followed.

As soon as they walked in, people looked up. Most stares fixed on Rust, but quickly moved over to Marty, and he narrowed his eyes in discomfort and suspicion. Rust ignored them all, choosing a booth at the back of the bar, walking slowly and without haste. He looked dangerous, covered in tattoos, wearing a white singlet and jeans; and he strode with a slow, deliberate confidence, like someone who belonged in a biker bar.

After they’d sat down and been given their beers, Marty glanced around the bar with a frown on his face.

“’Ey,” he said, “why’re they all starin’ at you like this?”

Rust twisted off the cap of his bottle, staring to the side, head bowed slightly. His posture made a curl of hair fall down his forehead.

“Usually drink alone,” he muttered, before lifting the bottle to his mouth and drinking deeply. His cigarette rested, gently smoking, on the ashtray in the middle of the table. Marty undid his own bottle, using the small task as a reason not to hungrily gaze at the long, elegant curve of Rust’s throat.

“Usually?” He inquired, taking a sip himself.

“Always.” Rust clarified flatly. He put his beer down onto the table between them.

“Why’s that?”

Rust smiled bitterly. “I ain’t fun at parties.”

Marty nodded thoughtfully at that. “Well, fuck ‘em. All my years as a cop, you know what I learned?”

There was a swell of noise from nearby, where a group of guys were playing pool and loosing badly. Rust sat still as a lion about to attack, which would’ve been unnerving if Marty didn’t get the sense he was like this all the time.

“What’s that?”

“Men are jealous pricks.” Marty grinned and gestured towards the pool table. “It’s the secret of life.”

Rust smiled again, bitter and remorseful, and Marty really hated that expression on his face.

“Ain’t nobody jealous of me, Marty.”

“Sure they are.”

“Yeah?” Rust reached over for his cigarette, slid it between his lips. “Why?”

Marty looked away, cleared his throat. He decided not to state the bleeding fucking obvious– that Rust was more attractive than everyone else in the bar put together– and instead said, “Well, your career. I mean, you’re practically famous, man.”

Rust sighed and shrugged, looking down again as he replaced the cigarette into the ashtray. He gently ran his thumb over the label on his beer, the paper soggy with condensation. Marty deliberately looked away again. A few moments of silence passed between them, filled with the noise of the bar and the hollerings of drunk pool players. Marty had a long drink of his beer.

“So,” Rust looked up and met Marty’s eyes, his voice flat, “tell me ‘bout yourself, Marty.”

Marty laughed. “Fuck, you’re direct, aren’t you?”

Rust glanced away again, taking gulp of his beer, and Marty could’ve sworn he looked apologetic.

“Not that I mind,” he added hastily, “people always have a hidden agenda, y’know? Always nice to have a drink with someone who tells it like it is.”

Rust nodded, as if he were grateful; it was obvious that he felt out of his depth, that he didn’t socialise like this often. Marty found his nervousness endearing. Shit, he found _everything_ about Rust Cohle endearing, but that went without saying.

“Well, uh,” Marty sighed, leaned his chin on a fist, “what’s there to tell about myself, hm. I was, uh… born and raised in Louisiana. Worked state CID for a long time, married even longer than that… Divorced, recently…”

“Any kids?”

The question seemed too quick, almost a demand– but Rust’s face was as expressionless as ever.

“…Nah.” Marty replied carefully. “Wasn’t in the cards. We tried for a few years, but...”

Rust nodded, but looked away, and Marty saw a flash of pain in his face. He sat up, lifting his chin from his fist, sensing a change of mood.

“You got a family?”

“Not anymore.” Rust’s voice was quiet, and he continued to avoid Marty’s eyes. “Why’d you quit the force?”

A blatant change of subject. Marty pretended not to notice.

“Well, uh,” he sat back in his chair, frowning, “didn’t like the culture there, y’know? Hated the work. What ‘bout you? Why’d you leave the brothers in blue?”

Rust blinked slowly, his face thoughtful. He was still looking away, off to the side. Avoidant behaviour.

“I never really fit in there.” His voice was a quiet drawl, and Marty was spellbound by him. By his loneliness, by the angles and curves of his face, by the way his voice hummed like a low prayer. “Never really fit in anywhere. When you’re… When you’re your own boss, it sorta… makes it easier.”

Marty nodded. He didn’t know, because he’d always fit in everywhere he went, but he could definitely see how a guy as enigmatic and mysterious as Rust would have a hard time.

“Your assistant seems a’ight, though,” Marty said, “You get along with her?”

Rust’s eyes flashed over to him. “You hittin’ on her already?”

Marty blinked. “What? No!”

Rust sat back in his chair too, regarding Marty evenly as he reached for his cigarette.

“Jesus fuck, do I really seem like that sort of guy?”

Rust lifted the cigarette to his lips. He shrugged, a small twitch of his shoulders.

“Kinda.” He replied.

Marty, dumbfounded into silence for a moment at the deadpan nature of Rust’s answer, blinked again and had another pull of his beer.

 _Good fucking call,_ he thought bitterly.

“Yeah, well,” he sighed, “those days are behind me.”

“C’mon, man, relax. I ain’t judgin’. We’ve all made mistakes, and fuck if pussy don’t make smart men stupid as all hell.”

Marty laughed, shocked by his crude language. “Yeah. Guess that’s true.”

“Jake wouldn’t go in for you anyway,” Rust murmured, “she’s too smart for somethin’ like that.”

“Jake? That her name?”

“Jaqueline.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah,” Rust sighed, let out a cloud of smoke, “she reckons the name makes her tougher or somethin’, but she’s just a kid. This whole punk thing, it ain’t her. The people she hangs with will beat up anyone and everyone just ‘cause they can. They’re skinheads. Fuckin’ morons. Racists and homophobes. But Jake, she’s got a real head on her shoulders. She ain’t like them.”

Marty nodded in understanding. “Kids do stupid shit to prove independence to their parents, huh.”

Rust hummed in agreement.

They lapsed into silence again, for a moment, and Marty tried to think of something to say.

“So, tell me ‘bout yourself, then,” he eventually said, cursing himself for being utterly unoriginal, “You raised ‘round here, or…?”

“Nah.” Rust’s hand lazily cupped his beer, cigarette between two fingers, “Alaska, mostly.”

“You miss it?”

“Not really.”

Marty nodded again. Silence returned. Eventually, Rust sighed, eyes falling closed, face tight with frustration.

“I’m sorry, man,” he said.

Marty frowned. “For what?”

“I ain’t very…” Rust gazed morosely down at his beer, “I ain’t good at this. Usually keep to myself.”

“Relax, you’re doin’ fine.” Marty nudged his arm with the back of his knuckles, trying to keep the smile off his face; shit, who knew he could find a grown man so fucking cute?

“’Ey," Marty continued, as a thought occurred to him, "how’d you know I was a cop, anyway?”

Rust had another drag of his cigarette. He still looked sulky. “You were wearing your piece. And you walk like a cop. Dress like a cop.”

Marty laughed. “Fuck, I bet you were _good_ on the force.”

“Yeah. I was.”

“Close rate?” Marty finished his beer, signalled the waiter for another.

“One hundred percent. Four years.”

“…Bullshit.” Marty stared at him, eyes wide, “Are you fuckin’ serious?”

Rust met his eyes evenly. Their waiter brought over another beer, and Marty thanked them distractedly, unable to look away.

“…Well shit, Rust,” he said slowly, “I think I might actually believe you. Where’d you work the beat? Alaska?”

“Nah. Down Texas way.”

“Why the fuck ain’t I heard of you, then?”

“My career… didn’t end too well.”

“What’s that mean?”

Rust looked away again. He drained the rest of his beer and signalled for another, but it was plainly avoidance.

Marty raised his eyebrows inquisitively. Rust regarded him tiredly, quietly thanking the waiter who returned and replaced his beer. Then, he took a long drag from his cigarette. Stalling.

“I caught a case,” Rust said, voice quiet, “Tweaker, injected his infant daughter with crystal meth. Said it’d purify her. Guess I… couldn’t take it.”

“Fuck.” Marty shook his head, felt a swell of disgust in his gut. He took a pull of his beer. “What’d you do?”

“Shot him. Killed him.”

Marty felt a jolt of shock whiplash through him. He held Rust’s gaze, but there was no humour in his face, no joke or exaggeration. Just deadeye honestly.

“Christ.” Marty whispered.

“Yup.” Rust agreed flatly.

“You know what? Good on you, man. I know there were times when I wanted to do that. The guy fuckin’ deserved it.” He raised his beer in a toast. “C’mon. To you, Rust, for doin’ what nobody else would.”

Rust, wry amusement in his eyes, clinked the bottle of his beer against Marty’s. They drank.

“Don’t blame you.” Marty continued, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand. “It’s a good thing you did.”

“Yeah, well. My wife, she…”

Rust’s voice trailed off. Marty frowned.

“…I gotta take a leak.” Rust stood, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Back in a second.”

Marty watched him go, his jaw set tight.

 

***

 

Rust came back, wiping his palms on his thighs. Marty watched him nervously.

“What were you sayin’ ‘bout your wife?”

Rust shook his head. “Reckon we can find somethin’ nicer to talk ‘bout.”

Marty tapped his fingers on the table. “You tell me you killed a guy, and then you vaguely mention your wife.”

Rust’s eyes snapped up to meet Marty’s, and his expression hardened.

“…You askin’ me whether I hurt my wife, Marty?”

Marty swallowed. “Yeah. Guess so.”

Rust held his gaze for several long seconds, before he slowly stood, throwing a heap of bills down onto the table.

“Fuck you, man,” he said, turning to go. Marty, now convinced, grabbed his wrist.

“Hey, c’mon,” he said softly, “I’m only askin’ ‘cause I don’t know you. And you gotta admit you’re pretty fuckin’ hard to read.”

Rust looked down at him, his jaw tight.

“Come on.” Marty tugged at his wrist, trying to ignore the way his heartbeat was thrumming in his chest, trying not to show how good it felt to touch Rust’s skin. “Sit down, finish your beer. I ain’t tryin’ to start a thing. I’m sorry.”

Rust regarded him for several long seconds more, before he pulled his hand away and sat down, slowly. Marty nodded to himself, taking a slow breath. He glanced around the bar.

“Your friends are starin' again,” he commented.

“They ain’t my fuckin’ friends.” Rust had a long, angry pull of his beer.

“I know,” Marty replied patiently, “Calm down, would you? I’m sorry I asked ‘bout your wife.”

Rust sighed. He rubbed his eyes, looking exhausted. “No, man, I… I’m sorry. I’m no fuckin’ good at this. Shit, I overreacted.”

“Chill out, would you?” Marty held out his hands. “Do I look pissed?”

Rust miserably considered him. “No.”

“So there’s no fuckin’ problem. Look, family is obviously a soft spot for you. Ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of.”

Rust stared at Marty, as if trying to gauge whether he was telling the truth. Then, to Marty’s shock, a small, timid smile grew on Rust’s face, his eyes softening.

“Thanks.” He said quietly.

Marty grinned. “You're welcome, Rust."

 

***

 

They had two more drinks. Conversation was sparse, but Marty enjoyed it nonetheless. He was just happy to sit there and stare at Rust, at the way light bathed his features and shadows enhanced the sharp angles of his face. He wanted, more than anything, to lean across the table and kiss him, but he knew he couldn't.

When they left, the entire bar watched them go, but Marty didn't care. Rust, apparently, didn't either, but Marty was starting to read him better. Rust was lonely, and he hated being judged. It was a sad fucking state of affairs.

"It was good to hang with you, man," Marty said, shaking Rust's hand in the parking lot, "thanks for comin' out."

"Thanks for askin'," Rust replied. He was wearing his leather jacket now, and Marty was utterly dumbfounded by how good it made him look.

"See you around?"

Rust nodded. "Yeah. Sure. Lookin' forward too it."

They went their separate ways, and Marty couldn't stop grinning.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this story is so cheesy you could have it with grapes and a light platter i aPOLOGISE FOR NOTHING


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify the context of this fic, it's set at the start of season 1 (in terms of their ages), with canon events drastically changed. (Thanks to 5sosleepy for inquiring about the timeline!!)

Rust went home.

He dropped his keys on the counter by the door, as he always did, then meandered over to his bedroom, pulling off his singlet and leather jacket. He threw them lazily to the side and fell down onto his mattress, sitting on the edge of it and folding his legs up against his bare chest. He rested his chin on his knees and gazed at the flowers. The room was dark, and they looked odd in the low light. Like a strange hovering mass of murky colour.

The noise of the bar, the echo of conversation and loud music, caused the silence of the apartment to buzz in Rust's ears. He felt as if he’d been shocked out of his usual regime, yanked from the dull and miserable routine that he’d long ago accepted as a deserved punishment. He remembered Marty’s hand on his wrist, his face looking pleadingly upwards as he said, _‘I ain’t tryin’ to start a thing. I’m sorry.’_ Rust’s eyes slid closed without his volition, and he took a slow breath. Emotion, the kind that he’d not experienced for a very long time, boiled inside his chest and escaped in a shaky exhalation from his lips.

He could still feel the grip of Marty’s hand in the parking lot. Could still visualise his smile.

Rust wondered if he deserved this. If he deserved a friend, after what he’d done. He thought of the photo he kept in a tin box, hidden under his kitchen sink. He thought of the small pink shoes, the ones that fit so perfectly in his palm that he always cried when he drank enough to think holding them would help. He thought of funerals and hard whiskey, nights spent staring at the wall and contemplating a life alone.

But the reality of tonight, the intensity of it all, pulled him from the memories he usually succumbed to, and he found himself thinking, again, of blue eyes and a kind grin. And it didn’t make the pain go away, not entirely, but he felt… okay. Which was confusing. He sat in the dark for a while and considered that. It seemed almost anti-climactic. He was so used to giving in, so used to having _nothing else_  to turn to.

When Rust realised he couldn’t explain how he was feeling, and couldn’t quite describe the conflicting emotions that filled him, he decided he may as well go to sleep. He pulled off his jeans and shoes before curling onto his side on the mattress, gazing at the flowers until his vision blurred.

For once, he didn’t dream.

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

A week passed.

Rust didn’t come by the flower store, but Marty hadn’t really expected him to; the guy was obviously antisocial as fuck. And, if he was being honest, Marty was relieved. He needed time to think. He needed space to come to terms with the enormity of what it meant to question his very foundations as a person.

When he’d walked into that tattoo parlour, he hadn’t looked twice at the girl. He hadn’t even cared what her name was. She was young and innocent, with big eyes and the noticeable swell of perky breasts below her garish band t-shirt; exactly the kind of girl that would’ve caught his eye before.

But he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Rust. About the hard planes of a male body, the elegance of an attractive man who knows his own power. He hadn’t even wanted to pause and talk to Jake.

Marty felt like he was hurtling in a direction he’d never before explored. And he didn’t know how to stop it.

 

***

 

Rust stood in the doorway of his studio, feet planted far apart, head tilted to the side thoughtfully, chin raised. There was a Lone Star beer in his left hand, and he held a gently smoking cigarette between two fingers, the filter glowing against the flimsy metal can. He was wearing an unbuttoned flannel shirt, and his muscular body was exposed to the parlour’s harsh fluorescent lighting; an ornate cross design, surrounded by an almost indecipherable mess of older tattoos, sat beneath his sternum and continued down below his navel. He was wearing a necklace, today. A silver cross, simple and plain, contrasting with the one on his chest. It hung just under the hollow of his throat. He looked like a sinful version of Adonis. A faint sheen of sweat shone above his tattoos, his skin slick from summer heat.

“You Christian?” Marty asked, by way of greeting.

“No.” Rust eyed the flowers in Marty’s hand. “The fuck are those?”

“Daises, dandelions, and daffodils. Thought this place could use some brightening up.” Marty handed them to Jake, who was smoking her own cigarette behind the counter. Her black lipstick was leaving smudges on the paper. He cleared his throat as he turned back to Rust, determinedly keeping his eyes on Rust’s face. “Why the hell do you have _that_ on your chest if you ain’t fuckin’ Christian?”

“It’s a form of meditation.”

Marty raised an eyebrow dryly to let Rust know his opinions on that. Rust regarded him blankly, stubbornly not offering further explanation.

“…Meditation?” Marty prompted him disbelievingly. “You do realise that’s gonna be on your body until you _die,_ right?”

“What can I say, Marty,” Rust lifted the can to his lips, “I’m a philosophical guy.”

“That’s a shitload of commitment for philosophy.”

Rust lowered the can, swallowing audibly. His throat moved with the sound, and Marty’s mouth was suddenly dry as parchment.

“Did you come here just to nag me, or what?”

“Uh,” Marty gestured behind him, towards the entrance of the parlour, “it’s Friday. Thought you might wanna get a beer.”

Rust glanced at the beer he currently held in his hand, then frowned. “What, you wanna make this a weekly thing?” He said ‘thing’ like he couldn’t possibly comprehend the idea, and Marty shrugged, trying not to feel like an idiot.

“Yeah, I guess. That an issue for you?”

Rust considered that for a moment. “Nah. ‘Spose not.”

“Well, alright then. Do your damn shirt up and we can head out.”

 

***

 

The second they walked into the bar, people stared. Again. Marty tried not to let it annoy him, but he was irritated anyway. They sat in the same booth they had a week earlier, and Rust started to roll up the sleeves of the flannel shirt. Marty tried not to look too closely at him, because otherwise he’d start thinking about that cross tattoo and how much he wanted to run his hands over Rust’s skin.

“I should probably tell you, Marty,” Rust began, pulling a packet of cigarettes from his breast pocket, “I’ve got a bit of a reputation ‘round here.”

“Yeah, I’d never have guessed.” Marty raised a hand to the waitress, two fingers held up. She nodded in response from behind the bar, obviously remembering their orders from a week before.

“Man without a family, at my age,” Rust put a cigarette between his lips, spoke around it, “people start to assume things.”

Marty frowned. “Like what?”

Rust placed his lighter and the cigarette pack on the table, looking evenly at Marty. His face was utterly closed off.

“Like, if we keep comin’ here, together, people’re gonna _assume things_.”

Marty blinked. “…Oh.”

Rust hummed in agreement, smoke curling around his face as he exhaled. “Yeah. Oh.”

The waitress deposited two beers in front of them. Marty didn’t look away from Rust.

“Well,” he said, feigning nonchalance as he took hold of his beer, “good thing I don’t give a shit about what people say.”

“You sure?” Rust asked. His voice was surprisingly soft.

“Yeah. D’ _you_ care ‘bout what people say?”

Rust considered him silently for a moment. The weight of his gaze pinned Marty in place, but Marty resisted, tipping his head back to take a gulp of his beer. Eventually, Rust nodded, reaching some kind of conclusion. Marty had no idea what he was thinking.

“Nah,” he replied, “never have.”

Marty shrugged as if to dismiss the issue, though he sensed that Rust was lying.

“Good,” he replied. “Anyway, tell me again; why the fuck do you have that giant cross tattoo if you ain’t religious?”

Rust glanced to the side, fidgeting. “It ain’t important.”

“Call me curious, then.”

“You ever heard ‘bout what happened to the cat?”

“’Satisfaction brought it back’,” Marty quoted proudly. Rust glared at him dryly, unimpressed. Marty grinned back until Rust relented with a sigh, flicking imaginary cigarette ash off the table with the side of his hand. He sat forward, leaning his elbows on the table, taking his cigarette from his mouth with two fingers. He moved so smoothly. Marty imagined what it would be like to see him fight.

“I contemplate the moment in the garden,” Rust began, voice low and steady, looking right into Marty’s eyes as if stating some kind of challenge, “the idea of allowing your own crucifixion.”

It was like he expected Marty to laugh and mock him. He waited expectantly, nervousness betrayed only by a small flick of his tongue against his bottom lip. Marty, noticing his anxiety, simply nodded thoughtfully.

“Well, I ain’t ever been any kind of philosopher, Rust, so you’ll hafta take it real slow for me,” Marty laughed, “If you ain’t Christian, what do you believe?”

Rust blinked. It was like it’d never entered his mind that Marty would actually sit and listen.

“…I’d consider myself a realist,” he said, after a pause, “But in philosophical terms, I’m what’s called a pessimist.”

Marty raised his eyebrows. “Huh. What’s that mean?”

Rust had a drag of his cigarette. He almost looked exasperated.

“We ain’t gotta get into the deep shit, Marty. You don’t wanna know what’s rattlin’ around in my fuckin’ head.”

“Well, I’m askin’, so obviously I _do_ wanna know.”

Rust laughed. There it was again; that bitterness, that resentment. Marty wondered where the fuck Rust Cohle’s life had gone so terribly wrong. He wondered what the hell this man had been through.

“I think human consciousness was a tragic misstep in evolution. We became too self-aware. Nature created an aspect of nature separate from itself; we are creatures that should not exist by natural law. We are things that labour under the illusion of having a self,” Rust gestured vaguely around the room, encompassing all the people they were surrounded by, “this accretion of sensory experience and feeling, programmed with total assurance that we are each _somebody._ When, in fact, everybody’s nobody. I think the honourable thing for our species to do would be to deny our programming. Stop reproducing. Walk hand in hand into extinction. One last midnight. Brothers and sisters, opting out of a raw deal.”

Marty sat in stunned silence. Rust started, shocked, as if he hadn’t meant to say as much as he had. He looked down at the table in front of him, hunching his shoulders inward. Marty tried to think of some way to reply to that. Something to say.

“…Well, shit, Rust,” he managed.

Rust inhaled a lungful of smoke, let it out in a short huff of breath.

“Y’see, this is why I ain’t fun at parties. Told you that you wouldn’t wanna fuckin’ know.”

“It’s certainly interestin’, that’s for sure.” Marty hedged. “S’pose I’m lucky that I never really questioned the religion I was brought up in.”

Rust looked up, eyebrows raised. “You’re Christian?”

Marty took a breath. “Well,” he began, looking away, over Rust’s shoulder, “kinda.”

“What the fuck does ‘kinda’ mean?”

Marty thought of those two boys again. He thought of all the late nights he was lying awake thinking about men, and remembered the way his father had told him about the queers who were going to hell– he remembered feeling sick to his stomach, crippled with terror, imagining burning for all eternity because of something he couldn’t control.

He looked back at Rust, smiled unconvincingly.

“…Nothin’,” he said, “Just don’t really fit the bill for goin’ upstairs when I die, y’know?”

Rust considered him for a long moment. Then he smiled, beautiful as an angel and dangerous as a shark.

“Brother, none of us do.”

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

They did make it a ‘thing’, much to Rust’s initial amusement.

Every Friday, they’d meet and go out for beers. Throughout the week they didn’t talk much. However, after Marty realised exactly how neglectful Rust was towards his diet– and towards his general wellbeing, but noticeably his diet– he made a habit of randomly stopping by the parlour and giving Rust lunch. This necessitated giving Jake food as well, and he started to cook more. Living by himself had, in the past, resulted in microwaved slabs of high-salt meals, churned through factories like moulds of plastic, tasting like slush and burning his mouth. But, now, he found a giddy enthusiasm in cooking, always delighted to wonder how Rust would react to new flavours and meals. He tried not to let it show, but his eagerness shone through despite his best efforts. He played it off as being a good friend.

“We bachelors gotta stick together,” he said one day, as he sat beside Rust in his studio, “ain’t that right, Rust?”

Rust snorted in reply. Jake, hovering in the doorway while she enthusiastically ate Marty’s apple pie, laughed.

“This tastes good, Marty,” she said, “Really good.”

Marty smiled in thanks, and then glanced over at Rust in way he hoped was subtle. Rust dipped a fork into his slice of pie, and Marty tried not to watch as he brought the cutlery to his mouth, slipped the metal teeth between his lips. He tried. He really did.

Rust swallowed, nodded his approval, and then had another mouthful.

“Not bad.” He said.

Marty grinned. He was too busy looking at Rust to notice Jake watching their exchange, a knowing fondness in her young eyes.

 

***

 

Marty’s days settled into a kind of routine, and he found a new lease of life. His work was characterised by colour and scent and vibrancy, and the most nefarious customers he had to deal with were people buying their partners flowers in apology for wrongdoing. He treated them with the amused empathy of someone who’d been there himself, and didn’t judge them. He no longer stared at the phone, thinking about Maggie, wondering with heartbroken desperation whether they would ever meet again. Occasionally, he would start writing a letter to her, but he never sent the attempts.

She was fading into the past. Marty knew he’d never forget her face, her voice, or all the reasons he’d fallen in love with her in the first place– but she would change. He knew, every day, that remembering her was like trying to talk to a ghost. He didn’t doubt her ability to move on from him. She'd tear down what she’d built in her heart, and build something new. If they ever met again, he’d look at her and see a stranger.

When Marty had signed those divorce papers, he’d been sure he’d never be able to move on from her. That he’d be destined for a life alone. But instead, to his shock, he had re-emerged into life, blooming like the flowers he sold. Renewed with a youthful brightness. The death of their love was fostering the growth of everything new and positive in his life. He hated to think that Maggie had been a conduit for finding himself, but he was glad that at least something good would come from their mess.

Time was passing, faster than he had expected it would. Weeks, then months.

Somewhere along the line he realised he had stopped mourning.

 

***

 

In mid-September, Marty repainted the interior of his store, repairing the faint cracks in the wall with putty and the blunted edge of a blade. His shirt was soaked with sweat, sticking to his skin, and his face was reddened with the heat. He trudged down the ladder, put down the tin of paint that had been balanced near his feet, and leaned against the metal rungs. He was exhausted.

The front door chimed. Marty turned around, expecting a customer, but his face relaxed into a relieved smile when he realised it was Rust.

“’Ey,” he gestured at the wall, “what d’you think?”

Rust blankly considered the fresh coat of cream paint. Marty wondered when he’d become able to decipher Rust’s minute changes of expression. Other people, Marty was beginning to realise, had started to become _‘them’._ The rest of the world was firmly separated from the relationship he had with Rust. Their friendship was a precious, tender thing, and Marty was willing to ignore his feelings if it meant he could simply be friends with Rust. He was honoured just to know he was close to Rust in a way very few people were.

“Looks good.” Rust held out a glass of water. It was full of ice, with a slice of lemon floating at the bottom, condensation dripping enticingly down the outside of the glass. “Here.”

Marty practically dove forward, swallowing down the icy water with eagerness, tipping back his head. Rust looked away, purposefully, but Marty didn’t notice.

“Aah,” Marty sighed, satisfied, “that was awesome. You got any more?”

“It’s water.” Rust replied flatly, looking back at him. “So, yeah.”

There was a small, barely-there smile at the corners of Rust's lips, his eyes sparkling with easy amusement– anyone else would've missed the subtleties of his expression, but Marty laughed, gesturing towards the parlour.

“C’mon then, you smartass. Let’s go.”

 

***

 

Marty’s life was perfect. That probably should’ve been enough to prompt him into wondering what would go wrong next, but he’d always been pigheadedly optimistic when it came to his outlook on the future.

One Friday, as September was bleeding into October, Rust and Marty took a seat at their usual booth. Neither one of them had any sense that something was about to happen. They drank their beers, as they usually did, and traded affectionate insults, Rust elaborately describing philosophical theories while Marty regaled him with gossip from his days with the CID. It was a normal night– right up until one of the other drinkers, leaning against the bar and glaring over at them with hateful eyes, called out,

“You wanna shut up, faggots?”

Marty and Rust both went still. They looked over at the man. He wasn’t big, but he was drunk and angry, and Marty sized him up immediately, sensing violence incoming. The guy’s friends apprehensively watched from beside him, obviously not nearly as homophobic or drunk as he was.

“What did you just-”

“Think you might’ve had one too many, man,” Rust said, interrupting Marty’s furious demand, his voice low and steady, “calm down.”

“Calm down?” The guy stepped away from the bar and started moving towards them, movements surprisingly sharp and focussed for someone so hammered. His hands were bunched into tight fists. The bar had quieted down, and everyone was watching. “You telling me what to do?”

Marty rose up off his seat, fast and angry. “Think he’s tellin’ you to fuck off, asshole.”

“A’ight, that’s enough,” Rust stood, placed one hand on Marty’s chest to hold him back, and held the other placatingly out towards their aggressor, “Just take a deep goddamn breath, we’re all just guys tryin’ to enjoy a beer-”

Marty didn’t even see the movement, didn’t have time to register what was happening before it was over. A fist connected with the side of Rust’s face, just above his cheekbone, below his eye– and that wasn’t bad, in of itself, but Rust jerked backwards, suspended in space for an unsteady moment before he was falling. His head connected with the edge of the booth they’d been sitting at.

His skull made a  _crack_ against the hard surface.

The sound sliced through the air, and then Rust hit the ground with a heavy thud, his body going totally limp. It all happened in less than a second. Marty, in shock, looked down at him. Rust’s eyes were closed, his head tilted to the side, arms thrown out beside him. He wasn’t moving. For a moment, there was silence. Stillness.

Then panic set in.

“Rust? Rust! Shit, someone call a fuckin’ ambulance! Rust, look at me-” Marty fell to his knees, stomach churning, “Rust, come on, come on,” He went to touch Rust’s face to try and wake him up, but froze when he saw the blood starting to seep from the back of his head. “Shit. _Shit.”_

Marty hurriedly yanked off the shirt he’d been wearing over his singlet. He gently lifted Rust’s head, heart hammering in his chest. He pressed the fabric against where the blood was coming from. His hands were shaking. His vision was simultaneously sharpened and blurred by panic, and nausea was thick in his throat. Behind him, someone was dialling 911. The friends of the guy who'd punched Rust were shouting at him, telling the homophobic prick to sit down and wait for the cops to arrive. The noise of the bar turned into a crazed cacophony, and Marty couldn't breathe. Someone was trying to talk to him, but he aggressively waved them away with his free hand.

_Come on. Come on, you were a goddamn police officer. You know how to do this. Relax. Fucking relax. He needs you to keep calm._

_He needs you._

“Rust.” Marty made an effort to steady his voice, speak plainly and loudly. “Rust, can you hear me?”

No response. Not even a twitch. Rust’s head lolled limply when Marty’s hands trembled, and Marty could feel the thick warmth of blood as it soaked through fabric and into his skin. Marty reflected, in a moment of senseless panic, that Rust looked peaceful like this. His eyes closed, his mouth gently parted.

“Come on,” Marty whispered, voice shaking, “come on, Rust. Look at me. Look at me.”

Rust didn’t move. Marty’s breath hitched, and he felt like he was spiralling down into chaos, pure terror seizing him, making him shake.

“You’ll be okay, Rust. You’ll be okay.”

He knew he was only saying it for his benefit, now. Rust couldn’t hear him.

 

 

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

Maggie had only just begun her shift when the patient came in.

After one look at him she could tell that he was lucid, if tending towards the aggressiveness that many concussed people tend to display due to confusion and pain. He didn’t resist the hands that touched him and stitched him up, but glared at all the nurses, answering questions with clipped and short sentences. Maggie met his cold stare with amused exasperation. If he thought he could intimidate her, he was wrong. She’d been doing this job for a very long time.

“This’ll be over soon,” she promised, standing guard as a doctor sewed up the back of his head. Of the people working the shift tonight, Maggie was the most competent in keeping aggressive patients calm, and restraining them when they got violent. The man– Rustin Cohle, she learned from his driver’s licence– had refused the small amount of general anaesthetic he’d have been able to take with alcohol in his system. He winced as the stitches pulled at the skin of his scalp. Clearly the local aesthetic wasn’t working, but he didn’t tell the doctor to stop. His hands were clenched into tight fists against his thighs, his lean arms tight with the effort. Maggie watched him impassively, waiting for any signs of hostility.

He took in a slow breath and then exhaled somewhat shakily, which was the closest thing to verbal distress that he’d expressed so far. His left eye was swollen by a bruise above his cheekbone. She wondered how much pain he was actually in.

“Could’a done this myself,” he muttered, “didn’t even wanna come to the damn hospital.”

“You were unconscious when the ambulance arrived,” she reminded him, “you’re lucky that your concussion has turned out to be relatively minor, but your friend didn’t know that when he called for help. You could’ve been in a really bad place.”

She’d always had a calming effect on patients. Her voice was the right mix of gentle and stern, and she could turn from comforting to commanding in a matter of seconds. But the man simply looked up at her, eyes hooded and unreadable. He obviously had something else on his mind. She met his stare for a few moments and then looked away– not because she was afraid, but because many patients would take prolonged eye contact as a challenge.

“You clearly ain’t heard ‘bout the circumstances in which I arrived here.” He said quietly.

She raised an eyebrow. He was right; her presence was mainly for the purposes of being a bodyguard. The hospital was wealthy enough that they could afford to pluck nurses from their duties for such tasks.

“Why do you say that?” She asked. “If there’s some information you feel you need to share about your attack, you can tell me.”

“Nah, it ain’t that.”

She nodded patiently, waiting for him to continue. He considered her for a moment, and she could’ve sworn that he almost looked sympathetic.

“That friend of mine that you mentioned. His name’s Marty. Marty Hart. Reckon you two might have a history.”

She kept her face professional, though she could feel her expression hardening, eyes becoming cold and angry in reaction to Marty’s name. She hadn’t heard from him since the divorce, and maybe that made her bitterness even more vicious. She’d wanted him to suffer. She’d wanted him to feel as awful as she had for so many years.

“…You’re his friend, are you?” She asked.

“Mm,” the man hummed, “I am.”

She nodded, crossed her arms over her chest. The knowledge that Marty was probably in the waiting room caused a mess of mixed emotions to explode in her chest. She’d fantasised for a while about tracking Marty down and punching the shit out of him, but also had entertained an almost equally intense daydream in which she found him, kissed him, and they lived happily ever after.

“It ain’t none of my business, what happened between you two.” The man said, his mouth barely moving, words soft and quiet. In any other context, she’d have found him extremely attractive. He was almost hypnotic, with his quietness and his stillness. “But he’s a good man.”

Maggie laughed.

“A stupid man,” he elaborated flatly, “but a good one.”

There was a kind of deadpan honesty in his words, and for some reason it legitimised his claim; Maggie didn’t get the sense that this was a man who stood for bullshit in any context. She found herself swallowing hard, nodding in agreement. She knew Marty. She hated him, but she knew him intimately, and it was a curse. There was still a part of her that wanted to love him.

“Doctor,” Maggie said, “has anyone talked to Marty yet, about his friend’s condition?”

“Not that I know of.” Doctor Evangeline replied, glancing up at her. There was a caution in her eyes, one that said, _keep it professional, Maggie._

 

***

 

Maggie found Marty in the waiting room, where she’d thought he might be. He was wearing grey singlet, slumped in one of the uncomfortable and barely-padded chairs. He looked exhausted, and there was a bloodstained shirt clasped in his hands. His knuckles were white from how hard was gripping the fabric, and her steps faltered for a moment when she saw the strained worry pulling his face into a miserable expression. Maggie had only seen him look like this once before; when his mother had died. Memories, for a moment, filled her head with recollections of better days.

He turned his head, and their eyes met. Her indifferent mask returned. She walked up to him, stood before him and looked down. She enjoyed the imbalance of power.

“Hey, Maggie,” he said timidly.

“Marty.” She replied coldly. “I’ve got some news about your friend.”

His eyes widened with fear, and he gripped the shirt tighter.

“Is he… Is it as bad as it looked? Christ,” Marty’s words were strung together, almost slurred by panic, broken apart only by heavy breaths. “Please tell me he’s okay, Mags,”

“Don’t call me that.” She snapped.

“I’m sorry, shit, I’m sorry,” he rubbed at his eyes, then flinched and then stared in horror at the dried blood that still clung to his fingers. He looked terrified, and Maggie, despite herself, felt a swell of sympathy.

“He’ll be fine.” She said. “You need to get washed up, you’re a walking hygiene violation.”

He only heard her first three words. A grin grew on his face, and she hated him for it. Hated his happiness.

"He'll... He'll be fine?"

“Yes. Head wounds can often appear worse than they actually are, due to how much they bleed."

"Oh, thank god," Marty breathed. "Jesus-"

"Come with me." She interrupted, turning her back on him and walking away. "I don’t want to have to sterilise this whole damn hospital.”

 

***

 

She took him to a bathroom, watched him wash his hands and arms. The blood made turned the white porcelain pink, and she eyed the sink warily, already thinking about how she'd have to bleach it clean. She took Marty's balled-up shirt and threw it out without asking his opinion on the matter. He watched her calmly, not offering resistance or complaint. She had expected a reaction. A fight. But he just looked tired.

“You must care about him.” She said hesitantly. “Your friend.”

Marty smiled as he washed his hands, eyes full of a soft affection, and Maggie froze where she stood. He’d looked at her like that, once. She remembered, absurdly, their wedding day.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do care ‘bout him, a whole fuckin’ lot. I’m…” he sighed shakily, laughed, “God, I’m so relieved he’s alright, you know?” He finished washing his hands and reached over for the paper towel, and she was genuinely shaken by the look in his eyes. Love. It was love that she could see in his face. No denying it.

She wanted to demand an explanation. She wanted to know how the hell _Martin Hart_ , of all people, could possibly have this amount of affection for another man. But she couldn’t even begin to imagine how she would phrase such a question. Surely it was just her imagination. Surely it was just friendly concern.

“Well,” she said, “as long as you’re happy.”

She almost hated the vitriol in her own voice, hated how easily she gave in to viciousness and bitterness. But she felt entitled to it, and when Marty went still, his face filled with pained regret, she found satisfaction his guilt.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. “For everythin’ I did, Maggie, I’m…”

She stepped away from him, out into the hallway.

“Your friend should be released soon. Have a good life, Marty.”

She didn’t look back.

 

***

 

When she got back to the room where Marty’s friend was being held, the doctor was just finishing up. Maggie met the eyes of this stranger, and saw a deep intelligence that wasn’t dulled by pain or concussion.

“Why did you do that? Why tell me he was out there?”

He looked up at her through half-lidded eyes. “Guess I wanted to see if he still loves you.”

She blinked. There was nothing but seriousness in his voice, and she didn’t know what to say. How to reply. She thought of the affection in Marty’s eyes, and suddenly felt like she was privy to something private, something new and undiscovered in the depths of her ex-husband’s heart.

“…Why?” She asked.

He didn’t reply. Behind him, Doctor Evangeline raised both eyebrows, an incredulous expression of disbelief colouring her usually professional demeanour. She snipped at one of the stitches she’d made, and put down her tools.

“All done here,” she said, “I can step out for a moment, if you two need to chat…?”

“No.” Rustin Cohle rose from his seat on the edge of the bed, not taking his eyes off Maggie. “We’re done here.”

Maggie cleared her throat, and tried to salvage enough calmness to speak. “...Because you fell unconcious due to the brain trauma, I'm going to advise that you don’t go to sleep for a few more hours. Have you been given a prescription?”

“Sure have.” He walked past her, brushing against her shoulder. “Goodbye, Maggie.”

 

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

Rust walked out of the hospital room, barely able to breathe. The back of his head, though he knew it was stitched up, felt as if it was still split open, and the bruising on his face pounded with every beat of his heart. His left eye felt as if it was burning, heated from all the blood rushing to where he’d been hit. Half his sight was blurred by the swelling of skin.

But all that was inconsequential. He’d been beaten up before, and even enjoyed it in the past. There was a certain thrill that came with fighting, one that he’d appreciated numerous times, usually while hopped up on stimulants or blacked-out drunk. Violence made him feel alive. The fact that he’d been caught off-guard and knocked out was nothing more than slightly embarrassing.

What was really cutting him to his core was the woman. The nurse, with her soft brown hair swept back off her beautiful face, eyes clever and sharp, lips soft and full. Maggie. The person Marty had loved, standing so strong and complete above Rust, arms crossed. In her, Rust saw a person that had her life together, a person that was unafraid to love, a person not scared of showing emotion.

He felt like such a fucking idiot, thinking he could ever be close to Marty. He hated that he’d allowed his feelings to grow at all, because he was eons away from that woman, an eternity apart from the kind of person Marty could ever love. There was a reason he stayed on the fringes of society, and this was it. This was why. He could never be _one of them._ He could never have what he wanted, because he was damaged goods.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection as he passed a frosted window. His face was warped by the thickened glass, one side of his face swollen and disfigured by violence, and he stared at the monstrosity before him, a sinking feeling pummelling through his chest. He felt the hot sting of tears surging below his eyelids, and could see eyes, red-rimmed and glassy, looking back at him with cruel honesty.

_No one’s gonna love you. Wake the fuck up._

He turned away, fingers digging into his palms hard enough to break skin. He didn’t want to look any more. He wanted a fucking drink. He wanted some goddamn painkillers, and maybe something even stronger, just to turn out the lights for a few days.

“Rust!”

 _Fuck,_ Rust thought, _fuck, fuck._

Marty ran up to him, and the wide grin on his face only made Rust angrier. Only made him more furious that he couldn’t be _her._ That he wasn’t someone Marty would ever want.

“Hey man, I’m so happy you’re alright.” Marty laughed, looking for a moment like he was going to try and hug Rust. “You look like shit, but you’re fuckin’ walkin’ around, so I guess that’s the important thing, right?”

Rust exhaled through his nose, jaw clenched. He closed his eyes, tormented, trying not to cry. “You should go home, Marty.”

“What, and leave you by yourself? No goddamn way, Rust.”

Rust swiped at his eyes, stepped past Marty and started to walk away.

“’Ey, Rust,” Marty caught his arm, held him back, concern filling his voice, “what is it? You in pain?”

“Get the fuck off me.” Rust growled.

Marty stepped around Rust to face him, ignoring the demand. His blue eyes widened in shock and concern, and Rust glared at him, hating that he was too fucking tired and sore to hold back tears.

“Jesus, Rust.” Marty whispered, reaching out a hand to touch Rust’s face. Rust grit his teeth and let him, because his anger wasn’t nearly as powerful a force as his loneliness. The gentle, tender touch of Marty’s fingertips against his cheek, below the swelling, nearly had Rust shaking. He was so broken. He was so damaged and alone that it was killing him.

“Does it hurt?” Marty asked, eyebrows drawn together into a tight frown. “Is that…? Is that why you’re upset?”

Rust slapped Marty’s hand away. He sniffed and wiped away a traitorous tear that made a burning track down his cheek. He pressed his fingers a little too hard into bruising, and he winced at the throb.

“Why do you care?”

Marty stared, confused. “What?”

“What, are you havin’ trouble fuckin’ hearin’ now, Marty?” Rust heard his voice shake, and he hated it. “Why do you _give a shit?”_

“…Because I’m your friend, Rust.” Marty’s voice was full of strained worry.

Rust kept looking away, avoiding Marty’s eyes. His hands itched for a cigarette, his tired body yearning to be held, aching to be touched. He was so tired. He was so lost.

“C’mon, just… Just let me take you home, okay?”

Rust wished he could say no. He wished he had the energy to fight, to push Marty away and return to the isolation he’d become so content to suffer. But his mind was staggering between unconsciousness and pained, wide-eyed insomnia, and he could barely stay upright. His body swayed with the effort of keeping his feet under him. His head ached. The stitches stung. He just wanted to sleep. He wanted to be held.

“Fine.” He breathed, words scratchy and unsteady as they left his throat, broken like the last gasp of a dying man. “Fine, Marty.”

Marty nodded, with the hesitant anxiety of someone who doesn’t quite know how to handle a situation.

“Car’s this way.”

 

***

 

He got into Marty’s car and closed his eyes, just for a moment. The seat under him was so comfortable, such a reprieve for his tired body, that he found his mind quieting, his body relaxing and slipping into unconsciousness. He didn’t realise he was asleep, chin against his chest, until Marty’s voice reached him.

“…wake up, Rust. Hey. Hey!”

Rust jolted in his seat, blinking his eyes open sharply. He jerked his head back instinctually, and the row of stitches collided with the headrest behind him. He let out a yell of pain, the sound falling from his mouth without intent, and squeezed his eyes shut. He breathed through the pain, humming through gritted teeth in an effort not to cry out again.

“Fuck,” he hissed, “fuck.”

Marty shook his head. “Screw this. You’re comin’ back to mine.”

Rust sucked in a sharp breath, still trying to gather his wits. “No, Marty-”

“I _ain’t_ leavin’ you alone tonight!” Marty shouted.

Rust looked over at him, shocked. Marty’s hands were clamped down on the steering wheel, the skin over his knuckles strained and white. His face, to Rust’s shock, was full of anger.

“Listen, you…” Marty drew a sharp breath, held up a hand to emphasise his words, or perhaps to try and calm himself, “When you were… Back in the bar, when you fell, I didn’t know how badly you were hurt– and then, when I couldn’t fuckin’ wake you up, I…”

Rust swallowed. He felt a flutter of warmth in his chest. Marty was silent for a while, hunched forward over the wheel.

“So nah, I ain’t gonna leave you alone. Not tonight.”

“…Don’t know why you’re even botherin’, Marty.”

“Why d’you keep sayin’ shit like that, Rust?”

Rust winced at the volume of Marty’s demand, and did not reply. His head wouldn't stop pounding.

“Listen, you know what,” Marty laughed angrily, “Whatever. Fuckin’ _whatever_. Regardless of what’s goin’ on in that damn head of yours, I’m gonna look after your miserable ass until I stop feelin’ like a piece of shit for gettin’ you beat up. And you know what else? I’m gonna look after you ‘cause that’s what friends do _,_ you goddamn idiot, and I _do_ actually give a shit about you, despite what you may think. So whenever you’re ready to open up ‘bout whatever the fuck’s makin’ you so shitty, you just go ahead and do that. Fuck.”

Rust stared at him.

He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t even know what to think. The last person who had spoken to him that way had been his wife, and he was so unused to people caring about him that he just sat and looked at Marty, tried to understand how to respond. He felt tears rising to his eyes again, so he looked away and tried to breathe without crying.

“He was an asshole. Wasn’t your fault.”

“Yeah well,” Marty sighed, “don’t really feel that way.”

Rust nodded.

“…Thanks, Marty,” he said, blurting out the words without meaning to, “For givin’ a shit.”

Marty sat in silence. He’d heard the tremor in Rust’s voice, and disbelief was filling them both. This was the most honest they’d ever been. The deepest they’d ever seen into each other’s vulnerabilities.

“…Anytime, man.” Marty replied quietly. “Anytime.”

They didn’t speak for the rest of the trip.

 

***

 

Marty’s house was nice.

It was obviously a home meant for two people, not just one, and Rust imagined Marty here by himself after the divorce. It was a lonely thought, but one that Rust found weirdly comforting. It was nice to know he wasn’t the only one having to cope with the slow torture of solitude. But the welcoming calm of the place, the homeliness of rooms properly furnished, made Rust yearn for a life that wasn’t his.

“Well, here’s the spare bed,” Marty said, leading him to a small room, “ensuite’s through there. It ain’t much, but…”

Rust resisted the urge to laugh; the setup was a great deal nicer than his entire apartment. He silently resolved to never let Marty see his shithole of a home.

“It looks great, Marty,” Rust replied. He made his way towards the bed, a warm feeling of relief humming through him at just the sight of a soft, already-made bed. “Thanks.”

“’Ey, you,” Marty stepped towards him, face tight with worry, “You ain’t supposed to sleep yet, are you? ‘Cause of the concussion?”

“Fuck that.” Rust tugged at the tucked-in sheets, loosening the crisp folds. “You got any alcohol in this place?”

“Rust…” Hesitant concern crept into Marty’s voice, “…You really shouldn’t be drinkin’, the state you’re in…”

“I’m a grown fuckin’ man, Marty, I’ll do what I want.”

“Yeah, sure. But not in my damn house you won’t.”

Rust looked up at him. Marty was clearly determined, and he didn’t look like he’d budge on the issue. Rust considered going out into the kitchen and searching for something to drink anyway, but there was something about Marty’s insistence that stopped him. He nodded, relenting, and sat down on the bed with his back to Marty.

“Alright, fine. Man’s house is his own, I can respect that.” Rust said quietly, starting to undo his shirt.

“And the other issue? You shouldn’t be sleepin’ yet.”

“What’s the alternative? You wanna stay up all night and tell fuckin’ stories? Braid each other’s hair and talk ‘bout boys?”

“Rust…”

Marty’s voice trailed off as Rust pulled off his shirt. His neck was stained a faint pink from the blood, and there was a cluster of bruises dotting his back from how hard he’d landed on the bar floor. His head was bowed, and he looked so vulnerable that, for a moment, Marty was speechless.

“Last time I got _truly_ fucked up, Marty, I spent the night in a gutter with a load of crystal in my system. I had two broken ribs, a fractured wrist, and I was so high I couldn’t fuckin’ speak. My headache that didn’t go away for three months, and I only stopped seein’ shit after two weeks. So, as far as wild nights go, this ain’t that.”

Marty was silent for a while.

“Just let me get some sleep, man,” Rust said, not begging but letting a thread of desperation seep into his voice, “I’ll be fine.”

Marty nodded. He didn’t believe Rust, but he knew he’d loose this argument.

“If you need me, I’m down the hall, alright?”

Rust nodded. “Yeah. Alright.”

 

***

 

Marty went to bed and didn’t sleep. He lay on his back and listened, imagined he could hear Rust breathing down the hall. When his eyes fell closed, he was acutely aware of Rust’s body, resting in a bed. So near. So close.

Seeing Rust so vulnerable had left Marty shaken. He hated this. He didn’t know what to do, and he felt like he was walking a tightrope, faced with a terrifying precariousness that he hadn’t seen coming. Part of him wanted to believe that this was all just due to Rust suffering the concussion, but he knew there was something else going on. He remembered that moment in the hospital, when he’d touched his fingers to Rust’s cheek. He couldn’t believe Rust had let him do that.

Such a small touch. Such a tiny thing, but Marty couldn’t stop thinking about it.

In the darkness of his bedroom, he pressed his hands against his face and wished he knew what he was doing. He wished he didn’t have these feelings, these desires. Wished he didn’t feel n overwhelming pull towards where Rust was sleeping, the need to go into that room and comfort him, kiss him and make the pain go away.

Memories of Maggie resurged into Marty’s mind, reborn by seeing her face. They blurred and morphed in his head, distorted by the longings he waking to, until the body he imagined no longer had soft curves and the slender plumpness of a woman. He could taste phantom breaths, hear heavy gasps, feel Rust’s clever mouth against his own. He felt heat beginning to boil in his abdomen as he imagined Rust looking up at him, eyes full of lust.

He fisted his hands in the sheets.

_Fuck. No. Don’t do this, Marty, shit. He’s in your spare fucking room._

That didn’t help at all. Marty rolled over onto his side, squeezed his eyes shut and tried to sleep.

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

Marty was woken by a shrill shriek. After waking in a confused panic, scrambling out of bed as he tried to find the source of the noise, he realised it was his phone ringing. For a moment he was confused; no one ever called him, and especially not before midday. He stared at the offending piece of technology, still half asleep. His tired mind, for a moment, conjured the impossible scenario of Maggie picking up the phone to talk to him. He quickly decided that was stupid and that he was obviously delusional.

It took four rings of the phone before he remembered, with a jolt of shock, that Rust was sleeping in his spare bedroom.

He answered the call. “Hello?”

_“Hey, Marty, do you know where Rust is?”_

“Yeah, he’s uh,” Marty, recognising Jake’s voice, rubbed at his eyes and sighed drowsily, “He’s at my place.”

 _“…Oh.”_ There was a smile in her voice, a mischievous air to her tone, and Marty frowned, eyes widening in stunned disbelief. He had no idea why the hell Jake would’ve jumped to _that_ conclusion.

“No, no, not like that. He was in hospital last night.”

_“What? Why!”_

Marty winced and held the phone away from his ear somewhat, as her yell distorted the phone with static. He thought of Rust again, and felt a desperate need for caffeine. He wasn’t awake enough to deal with everything that was happening at present.

“Some guy at the bar, had an issue with us. Took it out on Rust.”

 _“Fuck.”_ Jake whispered miserably. _“He okay?”_

“Oh hell, Jake,” Marty muttered, “you know what he’s like. I can’t fuckin’ tell.”

He didn’t talk about the way Rust had trembled and cried, the softness of his cheek under Marty’s hand in the hospital. Marty was still trying to convince himself that yesterday had happened at all.

 _“Alright, well,”_ Jake sighed, _“He had a big job scheduled for this morning. Guess I’ll send the customer away and close up shop for today.”_

“You need a hand?”

 _“I can take care of myself.”_ Jake snapped, predictably, and Marty grinned.

“Wasn’t sayin’ you couldn’t, little lady.”

_“I told you not to call me that.”_

Marty laughed. “Sorry.”

_“No, you’re not.”_

“Nah, not really.”

 _“Will you tell me?”_ Jake blurted, and Marty could just picture her, chewing nervously on her lip, her façade of punk rebellion fading to reveal a young girl with a good heart. _“If something happens? Will you let me know how he is?”_

Marty considered that. Rust was a very private person. He valued his dignity. And, as much as Marty liked Jake, pampering Rust and asking after his wellbeing wouldn’t accomplish shit. Jake was too young to understand that some people can’t be helped unless they want to be, and chasing them accomplishes the opposite of help; Marty knew, without a doubt, that he was the one Rust would come to if he actually found it in himself to seek help, and to everyone else he’d remain straight-faced and cold. The thought carried a weight of responsibility, but also a flattering warmth.

“…Yeah.” He lied. “Yeah, sure.”

_“Okay, thanks. Take care of him, Marty.”_

Marty nodded. “I will, Jake. Call if you need any help with that tough old customer, y’hear?”

_“Piss off.”_

She hung up, and Marty chuckled to himself. He found her dramatic toughness endlessly amusing. He imagined that, if he’d ever had a daughter, he’d have wanted a girl like her. A kid he could understand. A kid with the same issues as he’d had, pretending to be strong to compensate for fragility.

 _Then again,_ he mused as he replaced the phone in the receiver, remembering his married days, _I probably wouldn’t have been able to raise a child like me. Kid can’t raise kids._

Marty stretched, stalling for a moment before making his way out into the hallway.

He fidgeted as he neared the spare bedroom, tugging at the hem of his white pyjama shirt, every step heavy and slow. He tried to walk lightly so he wouldn’t wake Rust, but ended up giving in and wincing sympathetically whenever the floorboards groaned under his feet. He'd never been famed for having a light step.

He slowly pushed the spare bedroom door open, and stood still as a statue.

Rust was lying on his stomach, head turned away from Marty. The first thing Marty’s eyes were drawn to was the sloping, enticing curve of Rust’s back, brown skin interrupted by the waistband of loose boxer shorts. Marty’s pulse jumped against his skin, and he felt like a pervert, like an intruder even though this was his own damn house. Rust’s clothes were in a pile by the bed, and– aside from those boxers– he was totally naked. To make matters worse for Marty, one of his legs was bent at the knee, turned at the hip; accentuating the curve of his ass and the line of his waist. His tattoo-covered arms rested beside his body, fingers curled loosely against the sheets, and the birds were almost hypnotic in the morning light. Their shrieking beaks and beady eyes watched Marty, made him feel oddly uncomfortable. He forced his eyes away from the designs after a beat of silence.

Rust’s torso was rising and falling with slow, calm breaths. The edge of a tattoo, the words _NO GODS,_ travelled over the curve of a rib. The set of stitches in the back of Rust's head was small, surrounded by several clumps of chopped hair, owing to the doctor’s need to clear the site of injury. His back was still faintly bruised, and his neck was still tinged pink from blood. Marty’s mind, unhelpful as ever, presented him with a vision of washing Rust clean in the shower, and he closed his eyes, cursing his own brain.

When he opened his eyes, Rust still hadn’t moved. The scene reminded Marty of cage fighters and boxers, of men who willingly walked into rings of violence and humiliation, and then went home to lie in their own agony and misery, the ecstasy and the pleasure of fighting fading and leaving nothing but pain in its wake.

Only this time, Rust hadn’t willingly sought out punishment. Marty grit his teeth and breathed in deeply, feeling a swell of guilt as he remembered the way he’d confronted the man in the bar.

He’d gotten himself– and others– in trouble before, because he couldn’t handle his anger. But he’d thought this was different. He’d thought he was doing the right thing, standing up for himself and for Rust. He hadn’t considered the consequences. He hadn’t known this would happen. And the worst part of it all was that he’d been so _ready_ to fight for their friendship, to defend their unique relationship from the cruelty of the world.

He looked at Rust. At his friend, who suffered so deeply and so continuously.

 _I didn’t want this,_ Marty thought desperately, _I didn’t want him to get hurt because of me._

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

When Rust woke up, he felt like someone had scooped out his brain and then stuffed it back in wrong. Pain echoed in sharp stabs, ricocheting off the inside of his skull and slicing through every synapse. When he opened his eyes, the sunlight pouring through the window hit him with the force of a punch, sparking a violent mess of colours; erupting like a film of static over everything he saw. The feeling had him trembling, his breath shaking as he tried to calm himself. His scalp was pulled tight, like wax stretched over bone, and a white-hot pulse of agony pumped from the set of stitches in his head. His synaesthesia warped every single sensation until he could feel nothing but pain, faced with it at every turn.

Everything hurt.

He slowly lifted himself up onto his arms, and the low groan that escaped his mouth made his temples throb. There was a warm ache all down his back, and the memory of impact nearly knocked him back onto the mattress. Recollections, blurred by pain and exhaustion, filled his mind like a broken record until he remembered Marty’s hand on his face, Marty’s raised voice as he insisted Rust come home with him.

Rust managed to get his legs under himself, so that he was on his hands and knees. He then slowly rotated his body until his feet were flopping over the edge of the bed and he was sitting, slumped over. He gazed around the room blearily. He realised where he was and his eyes fell closed, humiliation settling into his stomach like a dead weight.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

He readied himself, wavering like a puppet with loose strings, and then surged to his feet. He hovered there for a moment, teetering between falling backwards onto the bed or collapsing headfirst onto the floor, before he finally gained some stability. He blindly reached out beside him, eyelids flickering, breaths heavy and fast.

Drugs had left their impact on his mind, eaten at the tissue of his brain and damaged him in ways that would never heal. But, even before he’d given himself over to the lure of psychedelic oblivion, he’d been different. His father had always said as much. _“Y’ain’t right, boy,”_ he’d announced many times throughout Rust’s childhood and adolescence, voice rubbed raw by hard liquor and cigarettes, _“somethin’ gone wrong in that fuckin’ head a’yours._ ” Rust knew there was a word for it now. Synaesthesia. Hyper-sensitivity. Stimulation of one sensory pathway leading to the stimulation of a second. But fuck, that was only the start of it. He was so damaged now that neurological diagnoses and psychological verdicts wouldn’t do shit. There was no fixing him, because there was nowhere to start. There was no cure for synaesthesia, and god knew there was no cure for being dead inside. Not the way he was.

Rust looked around, swaying with every turn of his head. He groggily focussed, as much as he was able, on the pile of clothes he’d abandoned beside the bed. He stumbled towards them. With great difficulty, he put on his jeans, and it was only as he was picking up his shirt that he felt the cardboard-like stiffness of blood hardening the fabric. He glared down at the shirt, exhausted.

That was when the smell hit him.

The meaty aroma of breakfast, succulent and wafting. Bacon and eggs, Rust assumed. He felt a gnawing ache in his stomach, hunger overpowering all the other pains that wracked his body. In that moment, nothing was stronger than his need to eat.

He dropped the shirt and went to leave the spare bedroom. To his horror, there was a mirror on the back of the closed door, and he froze, accidentally looking at his reflection. The man that looked back at him was heavily tattooed and lean like a drug-addict, shoulders and hips canted to an angle, head lazily tipped back as if he couldn’t find the energy to be entirely vertical. His left eye, swollen by bruising, wouldn’t open as wide as his right eye.

Rust looked away from the corpse in the mirror, ripping open the bedroom door with enough force to make his aching body protest. He swallowed his revulsion and tried to paste a blank expression over his face. He needed to make it through this morning, needed to pretend he was fine so that Marty wouldn’t worry.

As soon as he entered the kitchen, he forgot he needed to pretend at all.

The room was bathed in yellow, and the air was full of taste. Marty stood at the bench, not yet having noticed Rust. His head was bowed in concentration, and he pushed food around in a sizzling pan. His hair, light and fair as wheat, caught the light and made him seem ten years younger. The faintly stained apron he’d pulled over shorts and a shirt was a dirty cream, and it was so endearing a scene that Rust found himself smiling. A vase of white roses sat on the windowsill. The domesticity of it all was more beautiful than any piece of art Rust had ever seen, and he wanted to stay here forever. He wanted to walk up behind Marty and slip his arms around him, press his lips against the curve of Marty’s soft neck and breathe him in. He wanted to bathe himself in the calm of this place, the warmth of sun-soaked skin. He wanted this life. He wanted this man.

Then Marty looked up, and Rust’s smile slid off his face. An automatic reaction; so easy that Rust hated it.

“Hey there man, how’re you feelin’?” Marty grinned, and Rust so wanted to be like him, to be easy and relaxed. But instead he simply nodded, movements rigid and tense, emotions locked safely away from the world. He wanted to believe that the glad excitement in Marty’s eyes was meant entirely for him. He wanted to believe that Marty felt the same.

“I'm fine. You got a shirt I can borrow? Mine’s got blood on it.”

“Uh,” Marty considered that for a moment, putting down his spatula, “yeah. Reckon I might have one that’ll fit.” He wandered over to Rust, and Rust only just managed to hold his ground, fists clenched by his thighs. He resisted the urge to fold in on himself, cross his arms over his bare chest, hide his body. He wasn’t used to people being close to him like this. He wasn’t used to exposure.

Marty walked right to him, peered at his face, the light catching in his blue eyes as it would on a rippling ocean. Rust looked back at him and fought to stay expressionless. Fought not to kiss him. They stood there for a moment, at a silent kind of impasse. Rust, for once, had no idea what Marty was thinking.

“How’s your head?”

“Fine,” Rust lied again. Marty snorted disbelievingly, and Rust both loved and hated the way Marty wouldn’t take his bullshit.

“Yeah, whatever. Sure. If you’re gonna collapse though, tell me, will you?” Marty wandered off. Rust forced a breath down his throat. “Make me some coffee. I’ll get you a shirt.”

“Ain’t you supposed to be the one looking after your guest?” Rust called after him, already wandering over to the kettle, just to have something to do. Just to put some distance between them.

“Maybe I just think you gotta earn your keep!”

Rust felt his lips twitch with a smile. He swallowed it down and started rooting around in the cupboard for mugs.

 

***

 

Marty gave Rust a tattered Pink Floyd shirt. Its seams were peppered with tears and it smelled faintly musky, in the way that well-loved fabric does after many years. Rust knew, as he took the shirt from Marty’s hands, that he would have to wear it home; his heart gave a heavy thump in his chest as he imagined pressing the shirt to his face in the privacy of his apartment, breathing in against the fabric and trying, _aching,_ to find a hint of Marty there.

He locked the thought away somewhere he couldn’t touch it. Not yet.

Later.

They sat together and had breakfast. Rust felt twitchy, impatient, discontented with the quiet and calm. He tried desperately to enjoy himself– and he did, to an extent– but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat down with someone for a civil, properly-cooked meal. It seemed unnecessarily ceremonial. He was more used to eating cans of beans while he worked, or scrounging whatever scraps he could find lying around the apartment. He itched for something to do. A way to fill the silence that didn’t necessitate small talk.

“Will you fuckin’ relax?” Marty eventually asked, amused. “Shit, you’d think this was torture.”

Rust poked at the bacon on his plate. It was rich with salty fat, and the taste was almost too much for him. He was taking it slow. Marty had finished his food and was nursing his second cup of coffee.

“Not torture,” Rust murmured back, slicing off a rubbery strip of fat and chewing on it, “just unfamiliar.”

“What, you don’t have breakfast?”

“I have breakfast. Just not like this.”

“The fuck else would breakfast constitute, Rust?”

Rust shrugged. “Whatever’s in the house. I ain’t one to bother with anythin’ fancy.”

Marty raised his eyebrows. “If you think _this_ is fancy, I’m fuckin’ worried ‘bout you.”

“Yeah, well. I got better shit to do than waste time eatin’.”

“Christ, Rust… You’re all beat up, you gotta take care of yourself.” An edge of worry crept into Marty’s voice. “Can you just promise that you won’t end up in a gutter after I send you home?”

Rust looked up and levelled him with a glare. “I’m a grown fuckin’ man.”

“Hell, could’a fooled me. Look,” Marty held out his hands, “I’m tryin’ to be _nice,_ a’ight? You don't look after yourself properly. I swear, sometimes bein' your friend is like tryin' to keep a five year-old from eatin' paint.”

“It’s a wasted effort.”

Marty snorted, lifting his mug to his lips. “God, you’re a prick.”

Rust looked back down at his plate, and didn’t disagree. Marty’s mug landed softly back on the table, and Rust watched Marty’s hands smooth down the table cloth, observed the slightly lightened skin where there had only recently been a wedding ring. It hurt, imagining Marty married to that nurse. Imagining Marty touching her, kissing her. Loving her.

Because Rust could so easily imagine being touched like that. Could imagine how gentle Marty would be. How caring.

“Jake called.”

Rust didn’t look up. He tried to banish images of skin and fabric from his mind.

“What’d you tell her?” He asked quietly.

“That you got beat up by an asshole. Nothin’ else. Know you’re a private guy n’ all. Figured you could elaborate if you wanted.”

Rust nodded. He scooped up the last of the egg on his plate, fixing his eyes on the creamy yellow. “You tell her why that guy took issue with us?”

There was a pause. Rust didn’t look up to see Marty’s expression.

“…Nah. Didn’t think it was important.”

Rust nodded. He put the eggs in his mouth, chewed, swallowed.

“I told you this would happen. That people would assume things.”

“…Yeah? And?”

“Meanin’ it ain’t your fault.” Rust put his cutlery down and finally met Marty’s eyes, steeling his nerves. “What you said last night, ‘bout ‘gettin’ me beat up’? This wasn’t that. That guy would’a thrown a punch no matter what either of us did. I’m just glad I copped the heat, not you. It’s my reputation that caused this.”

Marty frowned. He looked incredulous, disbelieving. “…I pissed him off. Way I see it, that puts some blame on me.”

“No, Marty. The blame’s squarely on my shoulders.”

“For what? For goin’ out alone and drinkin’ in a fuckin’ bar, like you’re entitled to do? For people assumin’ things ‘bout you that ain’t even true, ‘cause they’re small-minded assholes? Piss off, Rust.”

Rust clenched his jaw and looked away. He felt his face burn, and he tried not to let it show, tried to keep his emotions concealed. He wanted to tell Marty the truth. Wanted to tell him about the lows he’d fallen to after his family died, and that the reputation he’d been given wasn’t just supposition.

He wanted to tell Marty about Ginger.

But he knew he couldn’t. And shame wasn’t the only thing guaranteeing his silence.

“It ain’t your fault that you got stereotyped. Certainly wasn’t your fault that you got punched. Rust? Rust, you listening?”

Rust nodded, still avoiding Marty’s eyes. He was thinking of rough hands and white powder, stained mattresses and the smell of marijuana. He was thinking of addiction and how easy it was to use cruelty as a suppository for affection. He was thinking of how unattainable happiness was, and how easy it would be to pick up the phone tonight and tell Ginger that they should meet. Beg Ginger for drugs, for sex, for pain. Beg him for bruises and abuse, for punishment that would leave him empty and cold. Beg him not with words, but with dirty cash and a tired body. At least he wouldn’t be able to feel anything. At least he wouldn’t be dreaming of a love he didn’t deserve.

“Rust? Rust, for fuck’s sake, look at me-”

Rust flinched away from the hand that tentatively touched his wrist. Marty’s face was tight with worry, his eyes wide.

“What, are you havin’ a fuckin seizure? You okay?”

Rust nodded again, pulling his hand away. His heart was already beating harder in his chest, just thinking about subjecting himself to Ginger’s particular brand of brutality. He knew why he craved pain. He’d accepted it a long time ago. Yet, as he looked into Marty’s eyes, he felt the sudden need to reveal everything. To tell Marty what he was about to do, so that Marty could tell him not to. So that he could escape. So that he would have a reason not to do this to himself.

“You’re not okay, man…” Marty licked at his lips, looking searchingly into Rust’s eyes, with an honesty that made Rust ache. “What is it? What’s wrong? Is it just your head, or…?”

Rust abruptly stood. He took his plate, held out a hand for Marty’s.

“You made breakfast. Figure I should do the dishes.”

 

***

 

They didn’t speak for a long while. Rust washed up, and Marty drank his coffee. Knowing that Marty would, eventually, try to raise the issue again, Rust tried to find something to say. Something to distract him.

“I met your Maggie at the hospital last night.”

 Marty offered only silence as a response. Rust, with his back to Marty, couldn’t properly envision his reaction.

“Seems like a good woman,” Rust continued.

“I don’t want you to give me any shit ‘bout the divorce, Rust.” Marty said, sounding tired. “I was an asshole, okay? I know that. Marriage is… it’s messy. Complicated.”

Rust nodded. Remembered his days as a husband. An eternity ago.

“I know,” he replied simply.

“You ever been married?”

“Yeah. For four years.”

Rust let the words slip out of his mouth without really meaning to. He hadn’t told anyone, for a very long time, about Claire. He’d moved to a new town and left everything else behind. Even Jake had no idea, and she’d been working at the parlour for three years.

“…Well, shit, Rust! Why didn’t you mention that before?”

Rust slid the washing cloth over a plate. He watched the shine of water and bubbles over porcelain.

“She died, Marty. So did our little girl.”

Silence. Like a gun had gone off.

“Shit, I’m… I’m so sorry, Rust, I… All this time, you…” Marty drew a breath, sounding pained, “Shit, you must fuckin’ despise me, divorcing Maggie…”

“No, Marty.” Rust replied, too tired to elaborate. “I don’t despise you.”

_I love you._

The thought came unbidden, and Rust wanted to take the plate he was washing and smash it down onto the floor, or maybe hurl it at the wall. He knew the violence of his pain was showing in the tightness of his shoulders, his sudden inhalation, his stiff posture, but he didn’t care. He let Marty think it was just about his wife and child. And, to an extent, it was.

They were the reason he knew he didn’t deserve anything good.

 

***

 

Marty drove him home.

Rust didn’t talk, and Marty didn’t ask. Rust felt a change settle between them, and he let it. That would make it easier, later, when Ginger had him pressed facedown into the mattress, crying out in pain.

When he got out of the car, he slammed the door a little too hard.

“Rust…” Marty said, leaning across the car, “…My door’s always open, man. You know that, right?”

Rust nodded and walked away.

It felt like a goodbye.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise... there is a happy ending........ i promise.....


	18. Chapter 18

Marty wasn’t a fucking idiot.

He knew that Rust was hurting, and that he was probably about to do something stupid. Something reckless. He also knew Rust was in pain, which meant that cautioning him or inquiring about his intentions would do fuck-all to help the situation. He watched Rust walk away from the car, towards a decrepit apartment building that looked like it was seconds away from crumbling to the ground. He didn’t know what to do, how to care for this man without pushing him away entirely. They were friends, but the deepest parts of them were still unfamiliar territory. Distance between what they shared what what they hid.

Marty couldn't stop thinking about Rust's wife and child. Couldn't stop imagining Rust as a husband.

He sat back in his seat, stayed in the car long after Rust’s door had closed behind him, swallowed him into the privacy of his own misery. Back into that unfamiliar, hidden part of Rust's heart that Marty didn't yet have the privilege to see.

Midday started to turn into afternoon, and a film of sweat built between Marty's shirt and the leather of his seat. He peeled himself off the hot surface, sighed, and cast one worried look towards Rust’s door before he pulled away from the apartment complex.

He drove in whatever direction the car was pointed, following the streets aimlessly, hunger and worry eating away at his stomach. It was only when white neon letters were shining in the distance, like a heavenly beacon, that he realised where he was headed. Maybe it was just unconscious. Maybe it was accidental. Maybe he trusted Maggie’s advice more than anyone else’s, and still loved her beyond belief. Despite everything.

Either way, he parked the car, readied himself for what could possibly turn into a confrontation, and then walked into the hospital. Brooke, a red-headed woman who’d never liked Marty even before the divorce, glared at him over the reception desk.

“Marty,” she greeted him coldly, in a way that deliberately disclosed her utter animosity towards him, “you here to make trouble?”

Marty forced a smile onto his face. “Just looking for Maggie, Brooke.”

Her eyes narrowed. “…Start anything, and I’ll get security to kick your ass into next week. Got it?”

He held up his hands innocently, shrugging like a schoolboy who’d been caught by a teacher– just because he knew how much it would piss her off to know she wasn’t being taken seriously. He felt a pulse of sad familiarity in his gut. He’d forgotten what it was like to be around people who exclusively saw him as a bad guy. Deservedly, too, which was even shittier.

Brooke didn’t stop glaring at him as she called Maggie over the intercom. He continued to grin at her, though the expression was painful just to maintain.

“What do you want, Marty?”

Marty turned around, surprised. Maggie stood behind him, arms crossed over her powder blue nurse scrubs. He nodded in greeting, licking nervously at his lips.

“I’m not here to start a fight.”

“Are you here to make excuses? I told you this was over.”

“It is, Maggie,” he promised, trying to keep the weary strain out of his voice, “this ain’t ‘bout that, a’ight? I just… I need your advice. About… someone. Something.”

She must’ve heard his nervousness, his desperation. Her face softened in increments, and he saw a gentle curiosity in her eyes. As if she knew something. As if she already knew what this was about.

“…Alright. Come with me.”

He followed her to an empty hospital room. She closed the door behind them and leaned against it, arms still crossed. She looked healthy. Strong. He had always envied that about her; she had never needed anyone else. Not like he had. He sat down on an unmade bed, felt it creak under him, let the groan of metal supports fill the silence. He bowed over, looking down at the linoleum floor so that he wouldn’t have to meet Maggie’s eyes as he told her.

Funny, that she should be the one he would tell first. It seemed both ironic and appropriate. Really, it couldn’t have been anyone else.

“D’you remember the guy from last night? My friend?”

“Yes,” Maggie replied cautiously. Marty nodded, rubbing his hands together distractedly. He hadn’t expected to feel this nervous. He hadn’t expected this to matter so much.

“Reckon I might view him as more than just a friend, Mags.”

There. He’d said it. For the first time, the words were out there, and all the feelings he’d kept contained were finally _real._

He didn’t dare look up at her.

“He’s… in a bad place.” he continued, when Maggie didn’t offer a reply. His cheeks were burning, and anxiety caused a fever to prickle at his skin, tremble through his body. He couldn’t lift his eyes from the floor. It felt like all of his life had been hurting up to his moment, and now he was frozen still on the precipice of a new reality. “I don’t know what to do. If it wasn’t enough that… that I’ve got… how I _feel_ to fuckin’ deal with, he’s… shit, he’s hurtin’. He’s not okay, and I… I don’t know how to help him. I want to fix him, but-”

“Take it from me, Marty…” Maggie said, her voice surprisingly soft, “…if someone doesn’t want to be helped, there’s nothing you can do.”

He looked up at her at that, because he knew she was talking about him. He felt tears in his eyes, and he didn’t try to hide them. He just smiled at her, hopeless and thankful. She watched him, and he watched her. They’d spent so many years together, and here they were; two strangers. Seeking counsel.

“Doesn’t even matter if you love them.” She whispered.

He nodded, swallowed. A tear escaped between his eyelashes, falling down his face before he wiped it away. He sniffed and looked down again, wondering what he must look like. He felt safe with her. He wasn’t afraid she’d be malicious, not like this. Not with this trust.

“He does want help. He does want to get better.” Marty insisted quietly, clearing his throat. He wondered if he was lying. “He just… doesn’t know how.”

“Are you prepared to go down with him? If he self-destructs?”

Marty wiped at his cheeks again. He laughed.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

There was a moment of stillness before Maggie’s shoes were squeaking quietly on the floor, and she was holding him, arms around his neck, hands at his back. He pressed his face into her stomach, breath hitching. He remembered an eternity ago, when they’d been like this, pressed close in their bedroom.

“I’m sorry, Maggie,” he sobbed.

“I know.” She stroked his hair tenderly. “I know.”

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please heed the tags and proceed with caution <3

Rust didn’t keep drugs in his house for two reasons. Firstly, he wasn’t dumb enough to ever have anything on hand that would get him arrested, and secondly, he knew that he was easy accessibility away from an overdose. If it was there, he would take it in excess, because that’s what depression and addiction did to a man like him. He wasn’t suicidal enough to want something lethal within reach, even on his worst nights. He was still clinging to life by his fucking fingernails, and he didn’t want that fight to end because he took one hit too many. Shit, dying by accident was almost _worse_ than pulling the trigger yourself. What a fucking embarrassment that would be.

So, yeah. He didn’t keep drugs in his house.

This was fine in theory, but it did mean that he relied on Ginger whenever he needed a score. And being dependent on a man as poisonous and sickening as Ginger was a disgusting way to be– but Rust had no other choice. He didn’t know any other drug dealers. Not now, not so long after leaving the police force. Hell, cops were often among the biggest users and dealers in town, everyone knew it; they had the knowledge and skills to procure, sell, hide, and use drugs, and get away with it. Rust found it terribly ironic that, while he’d been on the force, he’d never taken any interest in illicit drugs. Around about now he could’ve used those resources. Found someone else.

 _Anyone_ else.

 

***

 

Rust closed the door behind him after Marty left, sagging against it and trying not to think about what was going to come next. Once he was done attempting to bury himself in denial, he went to the cupboard and took out a case of Lone Star. He cracked a can open and got busy gulping down the entire thing, ignoring the displeasure of drinking lukewarm beer. He didn’t need to enjoy it, after all. This wasn’t pleasure drinking. This had a purpose.

When he was done, he crushed the can, threw it on the floor and opened the next one. He knew Ginger would fucking trash the place when he arrived anyway; may as well get started early.

He always needed to be drunk before Ginger arrived. It wasn’t that he hated sex with the man– it was that he _despised_ it. And, most of all, he hated that he always let it happen. He wanted it, in some sick and twisted way. Wanted to be punished. Wanted to be held down, barely able to breathe as he was fucked hard enough to forget his own name. He didn’t enjoy it, but he always got off, body betraying him and bowing to the oldest of human instincts. Not that Ginger cared. Rust knew he was just a warm body for Ginger to have his way with, and that was fine.

Maybe that made it easier. That Rust didn’t have to open his heart at all.

The first time they’d done this, it’d been just after Rust was fired from the police force. He’d snapped after losing his family. Losing everything. Somehow, he’d managed to scrape together enough of a semblance of sanity that they decided to keep him on the job– which had gone terribly fucking wrong for his superiors when he put a bullet in a criminal’s head. Unprovoked firearm assault. They’d called it ‘undiagnosed PTSD’, and sent him home on an early pension, with orders to see a head shrink. Instead he’d driven out to bayou, where he knew from previous cases that the Iron Crusaders were dealing meth and prostituting underage girls, with the intent of emptying his personal gun into the heads of a few more worthless scumbags. He didn’t expect to walk out afterwards. It was an excuse to die, more than anything else. He had been certain he was going to kill himself anyway– so it was better, he reasoned, to take a few criminals down with him. Rust had been young, back then. The pain had been raw.

He’d turned up, tears in his eyes and a gun in his hand, barely even able to stand upright. Ginger had smiled at him, vicious and hungry. A predator salivating at the sight of fresh meat.

“Well, well,” he’d crooned, reaching over to stroke Rust’s cheek, “looks like we’ve got ourselves a live one, boys.”

Rust had swung his arm up, gun aimed it Ginger’s head before the biker casually swatted it away. All around them the Crusaders were silent, guns at the ready and knives unsheathed. Ginger grabbed the front of Rust’s shirt and yanked him close.

“You’re awful fuckin’ pretty,” he had hissed, breath stinking of liquor, eyes bright with insane violence, “reckon I’ve got just the thing to soothe that itch a’yours, boy.”

“Don’t,” Rust had mumbled, trying to push him away, “Don’t _fuckin’_ touch me-”

Ginger had dragged him into a small room in the smoke-filled shack, grabbed the back of Rust’s head and forced his face into a pile of cocaine. Rust did three lines in five minutes, mind and soul emptying. The world turned into something odd and different, and he reached out to grab Ginger’s face, stare into the pits of his gaze without seeing anything at all. He hadn’t been high enough to not know what was happening when Ginger pushed him backwards onto the floor.

He just hadn’t cared.

His wife and child were dead, and he had nothing to live for. He let Ginger grab his body, manhandling him with no gentleness or care at all, and closed his eyes, forehead against the floor. The sensation of lying still was not unlike flying, and the cocaine hummed through him like electricity. The sound of a belt unbuckling behind him had not frightened him. What occurred next was a blur to him, and even all these years later he couldn’t recall the memories, scrubbed away by the first hit of cocaine he’d ever done. But he’d known, when he regained cognisance, what had occurred. Ginger, leaning against the wall with his shirt undone, had made no attempt to hide it.

Rust had sat up slowly, aching in ways he hadn’t even known he could. When he pulled up his pants his hands trembled, and he’d have liked to believe it was the potency of the drug, but he knew it wasn’t only that.

Ginger laughed.

“It’ll be easier next time.” He promised, voice low and sweet, sickly like syrup. Rust had leapt to his feet, slammed a fist into Ginger’s face. Ginger still laughed, even with blood between his teeth. So Rust had hit him again. And again. And again. Until he was screaming, tears wetting his cheeks and sobs seizing at his ribcage as the loss of his family tore him apart. Ginger had liked it. The sadistic, masochistic fuck, he’d _liked it._

So had Rust.

When he was done, he stumbled backward. He felt horribly at peace, as if it’d been somehow cathartic to let all his rage out. Ginger looked across the room at him, still smiling.

Maybe that was when it had happened. When Rust, with nothing else to turn to, had discovered the addiction that was Ginger. After all, Ginger did fit the typical definition of a drug. He preyed on the weak and the hopeless. He hurt and he took and he plundered, and he never gave in return, offering only a few moments of pleasure in the midst of all that pain. He left shame and suffering in his wake. He reached into the most intimate parts of people and he yanked out everything good, violated bodies and hearts and minds without even a moment’s guilt.

And, most of all, he offered Rust something he couldn’t find anywhere else.

Oblivion.

 

***

 

It was nearing midnight when Ginger arrived. His knock on the door sounded like gunshots.

Rust looked up from his post at the kitchen bench, head swirling with six cans of Lone Star and four shots of Vodka. He got to his feet, ignoring the pain of his concussion, the nausea of too much alcohol too quickly. Soon, he wouldn’t be able to feel anything anyway.

He opened the door, and Ginger stood there in all his disgusting glory. Leather jacket, full beard, unwashed clothes. Those cruel, beady eyes, looking deep into Rust’s soul.

“You got yourself all beat up, I see.”

“That’s none of your fuckin’ business.” Rust grabbed his shoulder and pulled him inside, closed the door after him. Ginger went willingly, grinning.

When Rust turned to him, Ginger reached out a hand to touch his cheek, just like he had during their first night together. It hurt even more now, because Rust remembered how Marty had touched his face, ever-so-gently, that night in the hospital. The contrast was more than horrifying.

“Who did this, huh?” Ginger asked. “Who marked up your pretty face?”

Rust grabbed his wrist, but Ginger didn’t budge. He put a hand on Rust’s sternum and pushed him backwards, hard enough that the door jerked on its hinges when Rust collided with it, hard enough that a shocked breath was pushed from Rust’s mouth. Ginger moved his thumb onto Rust’s cheekbone and pressed it against the bruising. Rust swallowed, only a flash of pain showing in his eyes. He’d been caught by surprise, but had managed to keep the back of his head, and the stitches, from hitting the door. He couldn’t let Ginger know that they hurt so much. That’d be too exploitable a weakness.

He let his hand fall from Ginger’s wrist.

“Good boy.” Ginger purred.

Rust’s lips curled into a snarl, but Ginger slapped him.

“Been a while since we’ve had one a’these nights. Seems you’ve gone and got all wilful on me, Crash.”

Rust rolled his tongue around in his mouth, spat out blood from the force of Ginger’s slap.

“I told you,” he began, wishing his voice was commanding, wishing he didn’t feel so weak, wishing he hadn’t invited Ginger here at all. “I told you not to fuckin’ call me that.”

Ginger laughed. “I ain’t ever seen nobody crash as hard as you after a few hours of partyin’, boy, so I’ll call you what I fuckin’ like. I been meanin’ to ask you, anyway…” he slid closer, like a filthy fucking snake, one of his hands sliding between Rust’s legs, “…is that the only reason you invited me here? To party? Huh?”

Rust grit his teeth and resisted the urge to jerk his head to the side.

“C’mon, Crash. Can’t give you shit if you don’t tell me what you need.”

 _Like you give a fuck what I need,_ Rust thought furiously. He knew what this was. Ginger wanted him to say it aloud. Wanted him to humiliate himself.

He felt Ginger’s hand press into him, and he couldn’t stop the small sound that built in his throat. Ginger’s mouth was against his neck, breath hot and creeping, and Rust felt trapped.

“You know what I want.”

“C’mon, Crash. Say it.”

“Ginger-” Rust’s mouth opened in a guttural cry as Ginger dug his fingers in, pressed so hard it hurt. “Fuckin’ _stop it-_ ”

“No.”

Rust exhaled shakily. “I want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck me.”

Ginger chuckled. He let go, and Rust shook.

“There. That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

 

***

 

Rust wasn’t as defenceless as he’d been the first time. They did lines together on Rust’s kitchen bench and then fought their way over to the bedroom, where they continued to kick and punch and bite in a contest for the upper hand. Rust would always lose, because he didn’t want to win. But his sexual martyrdom ran contrary to his personality, to his pride and to his strength; so he never gave in until he couldn’t fight any more. At least that way it _felt_ like they were on equal footing.

He fought until the stitches in the back of his head were surely burst, until he was panting with exertion, until the only reason he was moving at all was the cocktail of drugs in his system. Until Ginger had to kick his feet out from under him and slam his face into the mattress, just to keep him down. Sparks filled Rust’s head, dancing like fireflies. He felt a distant throb; the hollow emptiness of a concussion. He wasn’t aware of the fresh bruises colouring his skin, or the splintering pain in his left wrist that could only mean a fracture. He wasn’t aware of anything. He didn’t even feel Ginger touching him.

He was thinking of blond hair and blue eyes. He was dreaming of flowers and soft hands, smiles and the comfort of Marty’s spare bed. Imagining that he was back in that warm place, that inviting house. Knowing that he wasn’t, but high enough to believe he was, he arched his head back and reached out a hand, seeking out Ginger’s lips. He tasted cigarettes and alcohol and other poisonous things, but imagined he was tasting breakfast and toothpaste. Imagined he was bathed in warmth. Imagined he was safe.

Ginger laughed behind him. He said something, but Rust couldn’t hear him. He realised, as he fell back onto the bed, that this was the first time they’d kissed. In all these years, after everything they’d done, they’d never kissed.

Maybe it was that thought, the knowledge of how deeply unhealthy a relationship this was, that snapped him out of his complacency. Or maybe it was memories of Marty. Either way, Rust felt a swell of something vile inside him– a potent mix of shame, nausea and fear– that had him scrambling up off the mattress. He stood, panting, as the world spun.

“Get out,” he breathed, “get the fuck out.”

He could barely see Ginger, owing to the chemicals that were fighting for dominance inside his brain, like he was some kind of nuclear power plant, ready to explode, ready to collapse. But he clenched his fists, held strong.

“Get the fuck out!”

He heard Ginger speak. Heard him protest, something about getting what he came for. Rust reached down and grabbed him by the hair, hauled him onto the floor. He wanted to vomit. He needed Marty. He needed to run. He needed to flee this mess that had become his definition of normal.

“Get the _fuck_ out of here!”

He charged like a bull, tackling Ginger, punching him until he felt the crack of teeth under his knuckles.

It felt good. Getting his power back.

Ginger fled him, slamming the front door hard enough to make the apartment shudder. Rust grabbed his keys and headed out after him. His head was full of cotton balls and corrosive acid, and his eyes were shrink-wrapped in tears, but he knew what he had to do next. He knew where he needed to go. Hope bloomed inside him like a flower, like the sun breaking through storm clouds.

He clambered into his truck, managing to start it only after four failed attempts. Concentrating with the determined focus of someone utterly hammered, he only had one thought in his mind as he slowly pulled out of his apartment complex. A mantra. The only thing that mattered.

 _Marty_ , _Marty, Marty, Marty, Marty…_

 

***

 

Marty was sitting in his living room, drinking red wine and watching some dumb romantic comedy that was only making him feel worse, when Rust pulled up out the front of his house. He looked up with a confused frown as tyres slowly rolled up his driveway, wondering who the fuck was visiting him at one o’clock in the morning and why they were driving like a grandmother with an expired licence.

He stood up from the couch, turning off the TV, wary. It was only when he pulled back the curtains and saw the familiar red truck that he finally relaxed.

“Well hey, man,” he said, grinning as he opened his door, “what the fuck are you doin’ here so damn… late…”

He stared. Unable to speak.

Rust had been beaten up. That much was obvious. His face was puffy from punches that had yet to darken, and now both of his eyes were swollen from the impact of fists. He was still wearing the Pink Floyd shirt but it was badly torn, the curve of Rust’s shoulder exposed by a massive rip in the fabric. The porchlight threw his haggard face and scruffy hair into dramatic shadow, making him look even more cadaverous and broken, which was probably why Marty didn’t immediately notice how huge Rust’s pupils were. Blown wide in a way that broke Marty’s heart, because he knew this story. He knew how this ended. He’d seen it a hundred times, across the cold sterile surface of an interrogation table. Reason dictated he should’ve closed the door and walked away, because he had seen this tragedy play out before. But he couldn’t. After all, he'd said it before, hadn't he? He'd promised his door would always be open.

Rust held out a bouquet of summer flowers, wrapped in cheap orange plastic. Dumbfounded, Marty looked down at them. It seemed almost comical.

“You always be bringin’ me damn flowers,” Rust mumbled, the flowers making a hushed noise as they were shaken by the tremors in his hands, “figured I oughta bring you some.”

 “Jesus, Rust,” he breathed, taking the flowers slowly as he tried to figure out how to handle the situation. He couldn’t abandon Rust. Not like this.

He reached forward and took Rust’s wrist to gently pull him inside. Rust flinched as if Marty were about to hit him. He had an expression of utter defencelessness, and it terrified Marty. Seeing a man so physically strong being as weak as a child was jarringly disturbing. He wondered what the fuck Rust had taken. Who had done this to him.

“I ain’t gonna hurt you, Rust. For fuck’s sake…” Marty whispered, “…it’s just me. Come on. You’re safe, a’ight?”

Rust nodded. Let Marty pull him inside.

“I’ve gotta take a look at you, okay?” Marty said, as he closed the door, “What’ve you taken? Can you tell me who-”

He turned around and did a double-take. Rust had moved closer, and now there was almost no space between them. Marty swallowed hard, taking an instinctual step away. He felt the wall against his back.

“Always makin’ trouble for you, huh.” Rust murmured. His eyes were wild, watery with tears, and his cheeks were flushed. “Why d’you bother with me, man?”

He reached up, put a hand on the wall next to Marty’s head. Marty tightened his grip on the flowers and, hilariously, wondered how effective a weapon they’d be.

“’Cause you’re my friend.” He tried to keep his voice calm. “Listen, just take a step back, would you? You’re obviously on somethin’, and I need to get you looked at before-”

Rust kissed him.

Marty froze. Rust’s hands settled onto his waist, and their bodies were suddenly pressed together, too fast– Marty could barely even process what was happening, could hardly even believe the warmth of Rust’s mouth and the hot, wet slide of his tongue. He wanted this, more than anything in the world, and in his disbelief he allowed himself to kiss back, to tilt up his chin and close his eyes.

Then he realised what was happening.

“What’re you,” Marty began, voice pitched high in confusion, “Rust, stop-“

“Mm, wanted you, Marty.” Rust breathed, lips clumsy and words slurred, a hum building in his throat as he licked into Marty’s mouth, “Always wanted you…”

Marty pushed Rust away, stumbling to the side. He wiped his mouth with the back of a hand, gasping for air like he’d been running. He felt lightheaded. Rust gazed at him, one hand planted on the wall in an effort to stay upright.

“Y’don’t want me?” Rust mumbled. His eyes rolled back into his head, and then he was collapsing. Marty lurched forward and managed to break his fall, arms wrapped around his shoulders. He ended up kneeling, Rust draped over him like a dead weight. Marty sat there for a moment, practically hyperventilating as the intensity of everything crushed down on him.

“What the fuck,” he asked no one in particular.

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

Rust slept for an entire day.

It was odd for Marty, sitting at Rust's bedside and watching him for so long. Every single moment since meeting Rust had been spent in awed worship of him, of his body and his mysterious mind, as if existing in his presence was some kind of waking miracle. He’d always looked away. Always averted his eyes for fear of being caught. Now, he didn’t have to. The stillness and quiet of the room engulfed them both in some kind of suspended reality, where he was free to absorb himself in every curve of Rust’s perfect face.

It was like looking at a delicate china cup, shattered down the middle, one vicious crack slicing through an otherwise flawlessly smooth surface. He was so, so beautiful. Curled on his side, breathing quietly. His cheeks were rosy and soft like petals, and his eyelashes kissed his cheeks gently, fluttering as he dreamed. The curls of his hair were light as feathers, turned to a golden brown whenever the sun graced him with its touch. But his left hand was bandaged, and the bruises on his skin were the colour of spilled ink– Marty wished he could just wash them away, wash him clean. He found himself hoping– praying– that the damage done to Rust wasn’t irreversible.

Marty had a lot of time to think. A lot of time to consider what he was doing, to ponder his motivations and question where on earth he thought this spiralling mess would end up. A part of him was certain Rust was headed for a fatal impact, destined for something tragic– something that would bring collateral damage to whoever was closest. The realisation that he didn’t mind was a powerful one, and he sat for several hours considering it. He hadn’t known Rust long and he knew that, realistically, it was stupid to feel so committed to a person he’d only met a few months ago. But his house was empty. His life was devoid of anything else. And Rust had become his primary motivation, his dreams at night, his singular friend in an otherwise lonely life.

Marty was prepared to suffer for him.

 

***

 

When Rust did eventually wake up, it was early Monday morning, just as twilight was giving way to sunrise. His eyes opened, first, and then he started to panic, trying to sit up, his panicked breaths cutting through silence.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Marty leaned towards him, kept his voice quiet. “Calm down, Rust.”

A grimace of pain distorted Rust’s face for a moment before he lay back down, stiff as the extent of his injuries became apparent to him. It was amazing he could stand to move at all. Marty sat still and patiently watched him come to terms with everything, a tight feeling in his gut as he remembered the warmth of Rust’s mouth. He knotted his fingers in his lap and tried to keep his countenance.

“You watchin’ me sleep?” Rust mumbled, his words thickened and muffled from the swelling of bruises. A line of scabbed blood cut through the plump pink of his lip, stark and raw if it’d been drawn on with a pen.

“Well, I was about to leave, then you woke up.” Marty lied. “What’s your fuckin’ problem?”

“Nothin’,” Rust replied tiredly, eyes falling closed again, “what’s your fuckin’ problem?”

Marty’s lips twitched with a smile. “Not a care in the world.”

Rust hummed in reply. Marty looked out the window; the birds were quietly singing outside.

“…How’re you feelin’?”

“Fine.”

Marty clenched his jaw. “Fuck off, Rust. Only reason I didn’t take you to hospital is ‘cause you were so hopped on illegal drugs that I didn’t want you to get arrested. I had Maggie come ‘round and take a look at you, just to make sure you weren’t gonna fuckin’ die. You know what that’s like? I thought you were _done for,_ man.”

Rust sighed, sounding regretful. “Listen, Marty, I didn’t mean to… I didn’t wanna bring this to your door. I’ll be outta here soon, just gimme a few hours.”

Marty laughed angrily. He picked a newspaper up off the bedside table, unfolded it with a snap of his hands, and held it out so that Rust could read it.

“Yeah, I ain’t lettin’ you go anywhere anytime soon, moron. Open your damn eyes. Read the fuckin’ headline.”

Rust did. It took him a while to focus, but when he did, his expression slackened with shock.

“… _’Iron Crusaders Defeated’_ …” he read, slowly, “ _’Police apprehend notable gang members and seize drugs’_ …”

Marty watched him. Saw his eyes fixate on the headline image; Ginger, arms cuffed behind his back, looking furiously down at the ground as he was led away by police.

“What the hell did you do?”

“Went back to your place while Maggie stitched you up.” Marty replaced the newspaper on the bedside table, sat back and crossed his arms. “Figured that whoever dosed you up might’ve been there. Turns out he was; hammerin’ on the fuckin’ door, screamin’ to be let in. I recognised the insignia on his jacket, so after he was done tryin’ to break down your door, I followed him to his stash house. Called in a tip with an old buddy. Probably the most important fuckin’ break Geraci has ever taken credit for.”

A breath, shuddering and sudden, made its way out of Rust’s throat– and _there,_ there it was; the relief in Rust’s face. The knowledge he was finally safe. Marty had suspected something, but the intensity of emotion in Rust’s eyes frightened him.

“Whatever was goin’ on between you two… he can’t hurt you anymore, Rust.”

Rust’s eyes flashed with anger. “You think this is a fuckin’ joke, Marty?”

Marty blinked. “…What?”

“You could’a got hurt. These guys are _killers._ They don’t fuck around– if there’s even one person who knows you made that tip, you ain’t got a life any more. They’ll hunt you down. And for what? For _me?_ What the fuck, Marty. Why would you risk yourself like that?”

Marty stared at him, disbelief quickly turning into frustration and anger.

“...Unbelievable. Y'know, Rust, if you weren’t so fuckin’ wrecked I’d punch you.” Marty stood, his chair scraping backwards against the floor. He felt his hands balling into fists. “You’re like the Michael Jordan of being an ungrateful son of a bitch, you know that? Fuck you.”

“You ain’t gotta protect me-”

“ _Fuck_ you!” Marty threw out his hands, not holding back his shout, not bothering to keep the fury from his face. No holds fucking barred. This had gone far enough. “You think I was just gonna sit by and watch you suffer like this? No! Fuck you! I’m _done_ , Rust! I’m fuckin’ _done_ lettin’ you hurt yourself!”

Rust flinched. “Marty-”

“Shut up! I _care_ about you! And, if that’s too hard for you to understand, _fuck off!”_

His yell filled the room. The birds outside fell silent, and Rust stared at him, eyes wide and shocked. Silence stretched on for a while, Marty's chest heaving with deep breaths.

“I care about you, Rust. I really do.” Marty smiled ruefully, sadness in his eyes. He shrugged hopelessly, let his hands fall by his sides again. “So fuckin’ sue me. I’ll do what I want.”

He turned to go. It was only when he’d gotten to the doorway that Rust spoke up, his voice barely more than a whisper;

“Marty, don’t… Don’t go. M’sorry. I'm… not used to people carin’, is all.”

The quiet confession, the strained pain in Rust’s voice, tugged at Marty’s heart. Made that place behind his ribs ache with sadness. He hesitated, sighing loudly and rubbing at his eyes. Then he turned back to Rust, eyebrows drawn together in a desperate frown. He was angry, but not angry enough to want to hurt Rust even more.

“No, I’m…I’m sorry, Rust, I… I didn’t mean to yell, I just…”

There were tears in Rust’s eyes. He met Marty’s gaze for a moment before looking away timidly, afraid and hurt. Marty felt something snap deep inside him, and before he could question himself he was stepping forward, stooping down, taking Rust’s face in his hands and closing his eyes, leaning over.

He felt Rust stiffen under him. Everything stood still, for a moment, and all Marty could feel was the softness of Rust’s lips, the puff of breath against skin. Then he pulled back, heart hammering. Rust was looking up at him, mouth open, and Marty realised, _I just kissed him._

He let go of Rust. Sat back in his chair.

Rust watched him. Marty had no idea what would happen next.

“Why… Why’d you… Why’d you do that, Marty…?”

Marty’s mind wildly searched for a lie, but there was no denying it now. He cleared his throat and looked out the window again, feeling like a teenager, as if he’d never even kissed before. As if they hadn’t kissed last night, up against the wall. He wondered if Rust remembered.

“…’Cause I’ve wanted to. For a while now. Since I, uh. Since I met you actually.”

He kept looking out the window. Determined not to meet Rust’s eyes. He could feel the blush on his face, and was almost ashamed of his embarrassment. Shit, this wasn’t turning out the way he’d fantasised.

He was still looking out the window when he heard it. A small noise, a tiny hitched sound. It took him a full second to realise that the sob had come from Rust. Marty looked at him, and nearly fell off his chair. Rust was crying. Not in the stoic, reserved way he had until now. There were tears pouring out of his eyes, and his mouth was tightened into a grimace.

“Why… Why’re you-” his voice was broken apart by shuddering breaths, his body shaking with sobs, “-playing with me like this, Marty -”

That was when Marty realised. That was when the reason for Rust’s actions last night became truly clear– he hadn’t just been stoned, out of his mind on drugs. He’d _meant_ it when he’d kissed Marty.

“Hey. Hey.” Marty moved closer to him, cupped Rust’s face again, trying to be as tender as he could, as if Rust would shatter if he touched him wrong. “Look at me. Rust.”

Rust did. Tears clung to his eyelashes, a broken sound wrenching itself free from his throat. He pressed his lips together, but couldn’t stop crying.

“You can’t just-”

“I ain’t playin’, Rust.”

Mart held his gaze, thinking, _Believe me. Please, god, believe me._

"I ain't playin' with you." Marty whispered again.

He had no idea whether Rust believed him. Whether he’d gotten through to Rust or not. He was about to insist, about to swear that he was telling the truth, but Rust reached up with a gasp, his long fingers curling around the back of Marty’s neck– and then he was pulling Marty down, crushing their mouths together. Marty fell forward, bracing himself on the bed with one hand, half-sitting on the chair. He was sure fireworks were going off inside him. He couldn’t believe this was happening. That this was real. Rust tasted like alcohol and morning breath, tears and blood, but Marty didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything except the silky slide of Rust’s tongue, the desperation with which he arched off the bed, small sounds building in his throat-

“Nn-”

Rust pulled away sharply. Marty did too, surprised. He was almost relieved to see that the cause of Rust’s sudden withdrawal was that the cut on his lip had split, and not that he had doubts.

“Oh, shit, sorry,” Marty stammered.

“S’okay,”

“I’ve got- Here-” Marty reached for the tissue box on the bedside table, plucked one free. He pressed the tissue against Rust’s lip, movements jerky and awkward, “Sorry-”

“Said it’s okay, Marty,”

“Yeah, well,” Marty cleared his throat, nodding. He had no idea how to finish that sentence. Hadn’t even known what he was saying.

They both looked around the room for a moment, avoiding each other’s eyes, blushing furiously. Eventually their gazes shyly met, and Marty smiled, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. Rust looked away, hiding his smile behind the tissue.

“You’re so fuckin’ cute.”

“Well, shit,” Rust muttered, “I ain’t never been accused of that before.”

Marty laughed. His chest had never felt lighter, and he couldn’t remember ever feeling this happy. He wanted to touch Rust again, to lie against him, to kiss him. But he could see the way Rust trembled with every breath, the way he held himself stiffly where he lay. He was still in pain.

“So, uh,” Marty gestured vaguely over his shoulder towards the kitchen, “I’ve got breakfast n’ stuff waitin’, if you like. Maggie says you shouldn’t shower with your stitches, but you can have a bath while I get everythin’ ready. If you want.”

Rust nodded. “Mm. Yeah, sure.”

Marty stood, went to leave. But he turned back, shocking himself with his own courage, and pressed a gentle kiss against the corner of Rust’s mouth. He paused there, for a moment, letting the moment linger. He felt as if he should say something. Words filled him to the brim, ready to burst free, but there was nothing he could possibly say that would eclipse this moment.

So neither of them said anything.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if yOU HAVE MADE IT TO THIS POINT, THANK U FOR HOLDING ON. I PROMISE IT WILL BE SUNSHINE AND MOONBEAMS AND FLUFF FROM HEREON OUT.  
> there are probably grammatical/spelling errors because i'm tired af and i don't have a beta reader bUT I HOPE U ENJOYED IT ANYWAY, THANK U FOR READING. NEXT CHAPTER IS GONNA BE PURE GOODNESS.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOL I GOT CARRIED AWAY (AND ALSO I CANNOT PLAN TO SAVE MY LIFE), SO THERE WILL BE 2 MORE CHAPTERS AFTER THIS

It was ten o’clock on a Friday night, which meant The Western Inn was heaving with noise and colour, bodies swaying and voices raised in jeering rejoice. Soon, Rose knew, she would be breaking up fights and calling taxis for the worst of the bunch. No one called the cops, not here. Hell, most of her customers _were_ cops; it was a good thing she knew how to handle herself, and that the cook was an ex-con who had done time in his troubled youth for armed robbery.

She watched the scene before her unfold, like some grotesque and cheap parody of a renaissance scene, sliding cloths over glasses and mixing beverages without spilling a drop. Making drinks wasn’t the hard part; _not_ making them was when it got difficult. Cutting alcoholics off was never fun, and she could already see several regulars getting the familiar glassy-eyed look she now knew so well. Tonight would be rough. She knew as much, and it didn’t shock her, or make her afraid. At most, the antics and drama that went on in this low-lit den of iniquity made her exasperated. Tired, even. But never afraid.

Rose was tough. _Real_ toughness, not the superficial bullshit that she was beginning to recognise in many of her high school friends. She couldn’t relate to them anymore. Those women, with their yoga mats and their blogs and their fucking children, husbands that worked away from home and lovers they met with behind closed doors. Their lives had such veiled secrets, strict schedules and dirty lies; at least, Rose reasoned, her line of work was honest. At least when she pulled a man against her in the night, she never felt guilty.

She could see it happening, witness the blush of her youth fading, watch her reflection ageing into a hard, reserved woman. Lines at her eyes, grey in her hair. Hard whiskey and plain clothes. She wasn’t little Rosie anymore. She was older, wiser, and lonelier. She settled into herself as if she were embracing an old friend. She had no other prospects, no education beyond school to speak of­– this was who she was, and who she would be until she died.

And she was happy with that.

Being the kind of woman she was, it was easy to recognise one of her kind. The hard people, the ones with too much vision and too many thoughts, who drank a little too much and had derailed promising futures in order to embrace darker things.

One of them walked in, that Friday night.

He was heavily tattooed, walking with a slow gait that spoke of power and grace, as if he were ready for a fight but too smart to start one unless someone else was stupid enough to think they could best him. He had the lean stature of someone who worked with his hands, and the cold eyes of a person who was dangerously intelligent. His sleeves were rolled-up and his belt was fraying. She eyed his tattoos, looking for gang insignias or swastikas, but couldn’t find any. That was something of a relief. She met his eyes over the bar, and he didn’t look away as he approached. Guarded weariness put on her on edge, before she looked behind him and blinked in shock.

Marty Hart. Walking in behind the guy, grinning at her like an idiot. She wondered what the fuck Marty was doing hanging out with someone who, by all visual cues, appeared to be his total opposite in every respect.

“Marty!” She held out a hand to him over the bar. “Fuckin’ good to see you.”

He shook her hand, laughing heartily. “Goddamn it's been a while, Rose- how the hell are you?”

“Oh, you know how it is; same old shit, day in, day out. Who’s this then?”

The tattooed man held out a large hand before Marty had the chance to answer.

“Rust Cohle,” he said, voice low and steady, “ma’am.”

Feeling taken-aback by his eagerness, she nodded and shook his hand, noting his firm grip and strong fingers.

“Ma’am? Well fuck, I ain’t that old.”

He smiled faintly, lowering his hand onto the bar. She’d have thought him unamused, but Marty gave a loud cackle, and she decided that Marty’s lack of awkwardness suggested this guy– Rust, whatever kind of a name that was– was just understated in his mannerisms. This was their normal dynamic.

“Well, any friend of Marty’s is a friend of mine,” she continued.

Marty looked at Rust, and Rust looked at Marty. They held each other’s stare for a while, long enough that Rose raised her eyebrows, feeling weirdly uncomfortable. As if she were intruding. There wasn’t enough space between them as they stood at the bar; they seemed to be tethered together by some invisible force, linked by a connections stronger than she felt allowed to witness. There was a line that sober men did not cross with each other, in her experience– so maybe she wasn’t shocked when Marty reached over, folding his fingers over Rust’s, taking his hand gently.

“We’re a little more than friends, Rose.”

She raised her eyebrows further, a grin breaking out onto her face. She felt like laughing. Marty was, quite possibly, the straightest man she knew. But she looked between them, and somehow they just… fit. It seemed strange, but they didn’t look out of place at all. There was a softness between them, conveyed by the way they stood and the ease of their postures, that told her they were more comfortable with one another than Marty had ever been in his previous marriage. It made her smile, made her ache with the melancholy of jealousy. And she was glad, somehow. To see Marty so happy. To see a love so pure and unique grace the alcohol-soaked, male-dominated disaster that was The Western Inn.

“Well, alright then.” She said, holding up two glasses. “You boys want some drinks?”

 

***

 

Watching them was an experience.

Marty talked enough for both him and Rust, always smiling and laughing, taking his Southern Comfort whiskey with coke and a slice of lemon. Only a few months ago he’d have called that a girly drink and demanded Rose serve him something manly. His bullshit machismo had faded, been replaced by something more honest and relaxed.

Rust took his alcohol straight, sipped at it with a flat expression and the occasional wince. He was relaxed too, though he expressed in a different manner. Occasionally Rose would see a small smile grace his face- an expression meant only for the man beside him, not for anyone else. She busied herself serving other customers and cleaning the bar, knowing that she wasn’t welcome as an addition to their private interactions. Hell, they could’ve been the only two people in the bar for all they cared; sitting with their sides nearly touching, thighs brushing when they shifted on their barstools, hands meeting occasionally. The sharp angles of Rust’s face were lit by the murky overhead lights, and she could see his eyes glimmer with contentment, as much expression in the tightness of his mouth as there was in Marty’s laughter.

They drank quietly and kept to themselves. She had never seen two men so happy.

They drew a few glances from other patrons, as was expected in a place like this, and she wondered if Marty had fully considered the fact that he was probably known to every person drinking there. Soon rumours would spread, and he’d definitely cop some heat from it. She wondered if he had already.

There wasn’t a problem until around midnight, when Steve Geraci walked in, lumbering tiredly. Fuck, he’d been here only a handful of hours earlier, getting his lunchtime buzz on. He stopped in his tracks, gawking at Marty and Rust, and Rose grit her teeth. The way they were sitting didn’t leave much to the imagination. She managed to catch Marty’s eye, nod in the direction of Geraci. He glanced over his shoulder, then looked back at her with a hard expression, mouth silently forming the word _'Shit'._ Rust frowned questioningly at him, but Marty spun around on his seat and waved at Geraci eagerly.

“Hey, Steve! How’ve you been?”

Geraci walked over, grinning. Rose watched him with barely-restrained distaste. If anyone were to start something, it’d be fucking Geraci.

“I’m great Marty, thanks.” Geraci shook Marty’s hand enthusiastically, their palms meeting in a clap. He glanced quickly at Rust before looking away. “Long time no fuckin’ see, eh? How’ve you been?”

“Yeah good, good. I heard ‘bout that Iron Crusaders arrest, too- congratulations man.”

Geraci laughed, booming and loud. “Thanks. Got a promotion and all. Good thing some keen-eyed citizen had the presence of mind to call me, huh?” He looked at Marty oddly then, smiling with a curious kind of mischief. Marty cleared his throat and looked away, as if made uncomfortable by the exchange.

“Steve, this is, uh. This is Rust.”

Rust held out his hand wordlessly. His movements were robotic and unfriendly, and Rose couldn’t help but be touched to remember the eagerness with which he’d introduced himself to her.

“Good t’meet you, man,” Geraci said, shaking his hand.

Rust let go almost immediately. “Likewise.”

Shit. His frosty tone could’ve frozen over the entire fucking bar.

Geraci nodded to himself, shuffling on his feet for a moment. Rose, expecting a negative outburst of some kind, readied herself.

“So, are you two together, or…?”

Rust and Marty watched him silently. Rose’s eyes widened. She was stunned by the diplomatic tone Geraci was taking; awkward and stilted, not unlike a father who was trying to deal with the fact his daughter had a boyfriend. But not aggressive.

 _Hell,_ she thought, _I’d never have picked Geraci, of all people, to be progressive._

“Yeah.” Marty answered, his forced friendliness all but gone. “We are.”

“You got a problem with that?” Rust demanded quietly, tone flat and dangerous. Rose glanced worriedly at him.

To the shock of everyone, Geraci laughed. He scratched at his neck and shook his head.

“Nah. Don’t take this the wrong way, Marty, but I ain’t shocked.”

Marty frowned. “…S’cuse me, Steve?”

“Come on, man. We all knew you were coverin’ up for _somethin’_ , the number of affairs you had. Guess before we all just assumed it was the pressure of not bein’ able to have kids, y’know?”

Rust raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips thoughtfully. Apparently done with the conversation now that he had confirmed there was no threat, he turned back to his drink and left Marty to do the rest of the talking.

“…Shit, Steve.” Marty laughed incredulously. “Would’a figured you for a different reaction, if I’m bein’ honest.”

“Ah, well.” Geraci slid his hands into his pockets. “You’re a good guy. You did good work, at the CID, and it ain’t my business who you sleep with. I mean, I’m an asshole, but I ain’t an _asshole,_ know what I’m sayin’?”

Marty laughed again. He seemed to be struggling to believe these words were actually coming out of Geraci’s mouth. Rose could empathise.

“Anyway. You two have a good night, y’hear?” Geraci left with a nod and a smile, heading up the back where his friends were sharing several jugs of beer. Marty stared after him, dumbfounded.

“Well, fuck me,” Rose said aloud.

“Yeah,” Marty agreed, a shaky relief in his voice as he turned back to the bar, “I second that.”

Rust grinned. To Rose’s absolute shock, he leaned over and pressed his lips quickly to Marty’s mouth, eyes closing for a tender moment before he pulled away.

“That was easier than you thought, right?”

Marty smiled, leaned into him. “Yeah. Yeah, it was.”

 

***

 

Marty held Rust’s hand as they left the Western Inn. People stared, but he didn’t care. Rust was _his_ man _,_ and he was fucking proud to have everyone know. Shit, he was still nervous, but Geraci’s acceptance and the buzz of alcohol had left him feeling delighted, brazenly confident. The warm roughness of Rust’s palm against his was all he wanted. As they stepped out into the parking lot, Rust lifted his arm, draped it over Marty’s shoulders.

“Thanks,” Marty said, grinning as he unlocked the car, “that was real important for me.”

“No problem, Marty.”

Rust kissed his forehead, arm sliding off Marty’s shoulders as he went to go walk around to his side of the car. Marty loved how easeful Rust was. How slowly he moved, like nothing could ever shock him or hurt him. Marty felt honoured to have seen Rust cry, to have seen him shake and tremble, because he knew it was a privilege. _His_ privilege.

They got into the car, and Marty pulled out of the parking lot. He fell silent without meaning to, and Rust, being the receptive partner that he was, quietly asked,

“The fuck’s up with you?”

Marty sighed, tapping his thumb on the steering wheel. Rust, letting him gather his thoughts, busied himself with lighting a cigarette.

“Your friend seemed pretty calm ‘bout us,” Rust continued when Marty didn’t reply, snapping his lighter shut and replacing it in his pocket, “thought you were happy ‘bout how that all went.”

“Yeah, I… I am…”

“What?”

“Nothin’, I just…” Marty drew a breath, let it out, tasted the bitterness of nicotine as cigarette smoke started to fill the car. “…Steve made it sound like I was in denial, y’know? Like the reason my marriage didn’t work out was ‘cause I never loved Maggie at all. But I did love her, in the same way that I…”

He stopped speaking immediately.

The words, _in the same way that I love you,_ hung between them.

“…Guess I just don’t like Steve thinkin’ that part of my life is entirely redundant.” Marty continued, muttering now, heart racing with the unspoken confession he was certain Rust had heard. “My relationship with Maggie wasn’t a sham. Just ‘cause I’m in a relationship with a man don’t mean that I… I was pretendin’, all those years.”

Rust didn’t reply for a while. Marty listened to the drone of tyres against the road, wondering if Rust was going to address what they both knew Marty had been about to say.

“Mm.” Rust hummed eventually, cigarette between his lips. “Long as you know what your marriage with Maggie meant, that’s all that matters.”

Marty felt a swell of relief. He wasn’t ready for confessions of devotion yet. They hadn’t been doing this for long, this dating thing. It was still new and different, and he was still trying to get used to how much he had changed. He didn’t want to ruin their cautious exploration of one another, their unsure dance.

“Yeah. Yeah, I s’pose.”

They lapsed into silence. They sat like this often; Rust didn’t feel the need to fill their time with small talk or pointless chatting, and he certainly didn’t believe in conversation for conversation’s sake. Marty realised, with a start, that he was driving back to his apartment. Not to Rust’s.

“’Ey, you… You wanna come back to mine, tonight?”

Rust looked over at him, a question in his hooded eyes. Marty kept his eyes on the road.

He’d been thinking about it for a while now, obviously, but they still hadn’t slept together. They had lunch together at work and went out for drinks on Fridays, just like they had before, but they always went their separate ways when they were done. If Rust hadn’t leaned over to kiss him occasionally, and visited on weekends, Marty would’ve thought that he was uninterested. But he knew that Rust was waiting for him to make an advance, obviously acutely aware that Marty had never been with a man before.

But there was more going on. Marty was sure.

Occasionally he thought of that biker, the one that had left Rust broken and stoned. He thought of the bruises on Rust’s body, and the imprints of fingers that he’d seen on Rust’s hips as he pulled alcohol-stained clothes off Rust’s unconscious body. He’d never asked because he knew Rust wouldn’t tell him, but he was sure the reality behind that night was darker than he had initially assumed. And a voice in the back of his head cautioned him that, maybe, the reasons Rust was taking things so slow were for his own benefit too.

But it had been over a month, and Marty had been so goddamn patient. He was sure he could read Rust well enough by now to tell if he was afraid. And, shit, all he wanted to was to touch Rust with such tenderness that his pain faded, was replaced by pleasure instead.

“…Sure.” Rust murmured eventually.

Marty nodded, holding the steering wheel a little tighter.

He was ready. He wanted this.

 

***

 

“The fuck is that?”

Marty, in the kitchen retrieving beers, glanced over at where Rust sat. He was squinting at the Christmas tree in the corner of Marty’s living room as if it was an omen of death.

“What, you got an issue with Christmas?” Marty asked, amused. “Colour me fuckin’ shocked, Rust.”

“There ain’t no point to Christmas, man, not anymore. It’s all commercial bullshit and false religion. You think anyone really gives a shit about the birth of Christ, as they’re opening the last-minute gifts they queued in line for an hour to buy? Fuck, if that’s anyone’s idea of worship, you can take your religion and stick it up your pretty little ass.”

“You’re just a bundle of goddamn fun, aren’t you?”

Rust had a drag of his cigarette, still looking at the tree. Marty walked over, handed him a beer, and sat beside him.

“You wanna spend Christmas with me this year?”

Rust shrugged. “Sure.”

Marty nodded, sat back as he had a pull of his beer. It was the small things, with Rust. The subtle mannerisms and the way he’d avoid eye contact if he was feeling bashful. Marty wasn’t stupid; he knew that the real reason Rust was bitching about Christmas was because he’d spent it alone for so many years, drinking too much and miserably contemplating the progression of time. But it didn’t need to be said. Marty had perfected the art of negotiating Rust’s complexities.

He turned on the TV, picked some western with historically inaccurate outfits and stupid accents. Rust didn’t comment on his choice, just settled against Marty’s side, draping an arm over Marty’s shoulders again.

It was nice.

Really, really nice.

 

***

 

 _This,_ Marty thought, two hours later, _is fucking ridiculous._

He hadn’t expected it to be this hard. He had kissed Rust before, many times– but initiating sex with him was something he was terrified to do. They’d actually sat through the entire fucking film, not speaking at all. Marty liked having Rust with him, liked relaxing with him in this way, but he’d invited him up here for more than just late-night TV. And, most annoying of all, Rust knew it. He was still, even after all this damn time, waiting for Marty to make the first move. Which meant he’d stubbornly sat still, for _two whole hours,_ and not said a word, in full awareness of Marty’s dilemma.

Shit, it was lovely, in a way. That Rust was so patient with him. But fuck if it didn’t make things a little difficult.

“Y’know, we can watch somethin’ else, if you want.” Marty said, eventually, breaking the silence between them. “I can tell you ain’t interested in this channel.”

“I ain’t interested in anythin’ that’s on television, Marty. You know that.”

“Why the fuck did we just watch an entire movie, then?” Marty asked, no real heat in his words.

Rust hummed quietly. “Happy just to sit here with you, if I’m honest.”

Marty grinned and looked down at his lap. Rust laughed.

“You’re funny, Marty. The shit you get soft about.”

“Fuck off,” Marty muttered, blushing.

Rust, still laughing, pressed his lips to Marty's cheek. He stood before Marty had a chance to turn his face into the kiss.

“You want another beer?”

“…Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

Marty watched Rust as he walked to the kitchen, swallowing hard.

_Now, goddamnit. I’ve gotta do this now._

Rust returned with the beers. Marty had a sip of his, trying to hide his nervousness.

He watched as Rust tipped back his head, lips pursed against the glass rim of his bottle. Watched the way his throat rippled as he swallowed. He was tempted to look away, to return to the security of inaction, but he was tired of playing it safe. He put his beer down on the coffee table, and waited until Rust had finished his mouthful of beer before he leaned over and kissed him.

Rust relaxed against him after a moment, eyes falling closed. Marty heard a quiet tap as Rust set his beer down. Marty reached up, nervous and thrilled by the prospect of what was to come, and slid his hand onto Rust’s neck. Rust’s hand lazily drifted over to his waist, fingers gentle and kind in a way Marty both loved and hated, because he knew Rust was holding back. He kissed Rust harder, shifting on the couch.

“Raring to go, ain’t you?” Rust murmured.

“Yeah,” Marty replied breathlessly, “Yeah, Rust.”

Marty didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to think, to give in to the anxiety that hummed beneath his skin every time he thought twice about the fact he was kissing a man. He just wanted to do this without questioning it.

It was only when he slid his tongue into Rust’s mouth that Rust’s carefully constructed control started to slip. Marty felt a hand in his hair, pulling, Rust moving against him. Faster, now. The sound of their kissing, wet and eager, made Marty gasp into Rust’s mouth. Fumbling, he took Rust’s hand and moved it down to his hip, beneath his shirt so that he could feel fingers against his skin.

Rust breathed in sharply. “Marty-” 

“I want you,” Marty whispered, “I want you so bad.”

“We ain’t gotta rush this.” Rust replied, but didn’t move away. His eyes were still closed and lips moved against Marty’s, his hand still against Marty’s hip.

Marty paused, hearing the tremor in Rust’s voice. He had no doubt, now, as to why Rust was holding back. He remembered the biker, the bruises on Rust’s body, and he knew the truth. There was only one thing for it. Marty was terrified by the prospect, but he was willing to sacrifice his own comfort if it meant Rust wouldn’t be afraid anymore. He knew Rust wanted to be in control. He knew Rust didn’t want to be dominated.

“I want you…” he whispered, “I… want you inside me, Rust.”

Rust went still. Marty hovered where he was, acutely aware of how close they were.

“You’ll be my first.” Marty continued, hardly able to believe he was saying the words aloud, his voice wrecked by the eroticism that came with vulnerability. “Teach me, Rust…” He tilted his head, pressed their mouths together, spoke against Rust’s lips, “Need you to teach me. Need you to touch me…”

He wanted the balance of power to rest entirely in Rust’s hands. He wanted to offer his body in the most intimate way, submit entirely, so that Rust would know he was in control. He wanted to be everything Rust needed.

“Shit, Marty,” Rust growled, his voice raw.

“Fuck me,” Marty breathed, “Rust, I want you to fuck me-”

His words were swallowed by Rust’s mouth. The hand at Marty’s hip tightened, grabbing skin, yanking him forward, until Rust’s lean body was pressed against his. He kissed back as much as he was able, but Rust was taking the lead. Sounds started to build in Marty’s throat, helpless and weak, and he didn’t hold them back, didn’t pretend to be anything but inexperienced. He’d never been touched like this before, not by a man. All his years with women meant nothing, not in this room. Not tonight. He was nothing more than a virgin.

Rust laid Marty down, held him against the couch with his body, pinning him in place with his hips. Marty looked up at him, not bothering to hide his flushed face or slow his racing breaths. He knew his hair was messy, his lips were red, and his expression was wide-eyed with nervousness.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Marty said, “Yeah. I am.”

Rust smiled, eyes softening. He looked as if he were about to say something, but he didn’t. Not that it mattered.

Marty didn’t need to hear those three words to know they were true.

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

Marty’s body was a light, unscarred brown. He was softer than Rust in every respect, with hair that was fair and blond as a child’s, and a mouth that fell open so easily with gasps and moans. He was uninhibited by the kind of fear Rust had learned to accept as normal. His eyes were bright and pure as church windows, and Rust felt filthy. He hated seeing his hands, marred and aged by the abuse they’d endured, against Marty’s skin. As if he were corrupting the purity he was seeing before him, and the darkness of everything he’d been through was creeping onto Marty. He hated his tattoos, his cruel past, his sharp edges and his pain. He wished he could be like Marty. He wished he could be so free, so wholly unrestrained.

But he forgot.

As he was leaning down, pressing his lips to the skin between Marty’s shoulder blades and listening to Marty gasp, he closed his eyes and forgot everything; his self-loathing, his pain, his fear, all of it. It wasn’t even a conscious act. In that moment, he was too spellbound by their closeness, their warmth and their noises, to let pain control him.

The epiphany went unnoticed by both of them.

They were in Marty’s bed, the room lit only by the bedside lamp and the moon outside. Rust had one arm wrapped around Marty’s chest, holding him close, his other arm stretched back, fingers deep inside. He dragged his teeth over Marty’s skin, pink flushes blooming under his tongue, decorating Marty’s neck and shoulders. Marty clung to his arm, breathing hard, face pressed into a pillow.

Rust loved knowing that they were doing this in the bed that Marty had shared with his wife. He turned his wrist, changed the angle, and felt a spark of heat in his chest when Marty made a choked, shocked noise. He wanted to banish Maggie’s smell, her presence. Fill the space with their sounds and exile her ghost from Marty’s life. Make love to Marty, right here. Right where she’d once lain.

“Y’alright?” Rust asked against Marty’s neck.

“How long,” Marty’s voice shook, his fingers tightening around Rust’s forearm, “d’you hafta keep doin’ this? Can’t you just-”

“No. We’re doin’ this properly. I need t’get you ready first.”

Marty sighed into the fabric of his pillowcase, and Rust could see his face tighten into a grimace. He felt a sudden surge of panic, freezing still as he remembered the pained expressions he’d hidden as Ginger did what he pleased.

“Am I hurtin' you?”

“No. No.” Marty must’ve heard the anxiety in Rust’s voice, because he stroked his thumb over Rust’s arm, shook his head. “No, its … I dunno, it feels… weird, but… good.”

The embarrassed confession was whispered. Rust kissed Marty’s jaw, relieved, and continued what he’d been doing before. He felt skin move as Marty swallowed thickly, and he knew that Marty was holding back. Keeping moans and whines from hitting the air, his throat tight with the effort. Rust twisted his fingers, hot satisfaction boiling in his abdomen when Marty stiffened, whimpering quietly.

The window was open, warm air moving the curtains, fabric touching Rust’s side occasionally; gently brushing his naked waist. He slowly ground his hips against Marty’s thighs, rubbing moisture against the fragile white skin of Marty’s legs. Marking him. Marty’s breath grew ragged, and Rust knew that his inexperience was heightening everything, making him both more afraid and more aroused than he’d ever been before. He’d never slept with a man. Never touched a cock that wasn’t his own.

Rust tried not to think of his first time, but he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help but remember the vulnerability of it, the indignity, the pain of Ginger’s fingers digging into his hips. He knew this was different, that Marty wanted him, wanted this… but he still needed to be sure. He still needed to hear Marty speak. Needed to banish the paranoia from his mind.

“How does it feel?” Rust murmured, “Need you to tell me how it feels.”

“I can’t,” Marty panted, his shoulders trembling, “Fuck, Rust, I don’t… I don’t know how to deal with this, I’m-”

“We can stop.”

“No.” Marty said, the word bursting free from his mouth with enough abruptness that Rust smiled, amused by his eagerness. “No, you- Don’t fuckin’ stop, you goddamn idiot.”

“Keep talkin’.” Rust pressed his fingers deeper, slid his tongue over Marty’s jugular, felt his pulse hammering.

“Why-”

“Need to know you like it. Need to know you want it.”

“You- You prick,” Marty laughed breathlessly, “You’re just makin’ fun of me now, ain’t you,”

“Never.” Rust promised, pulling him closer, chest pressed against Marty’s back. “Never, Marty. Not like this.”

“Shit.” Marty cursed, his voice muffled. “Shit, shit. I… I want more. I want…”

“Say it. Say it for me.”

“You _son of a bitch,_ Rust-”

“Marty,” Rust let fear, the terror of wondering whether he was doing to Marty what Ginger had done to him, seep into his voice. He let everything he was feeling– for just a second– be exposed by the desperation in his tone. “Please, this ain’t a joke. I need you to talk to me.”

Marty went still. He took a deep, slow breath, and Rust felt his chest expand as he inhaled. Rust held him tighter. Their closeness felt more meaningful, more important, than anything he had ever experienced. The weight of trust, the magnitude of the intimacies they were sharing, turned every touch into something golden. Something precious.

“It’s good.” Marty whispered. “I swear, it’s good. You ain’t hurtin’ me. I just… I feel… It’s all new, it’s… so intense. I ain’t in pain. It’s not freakin’ me out ‘cause I don’t like it, it’s… freakin’ me out ‘cause I _do._ I love this. How you’re touchin’, me, Rust… The way it feels…”

Rust kissed his shoulder, lips gentle and careful. Marty swayed his hips against the bed, and Rust knew how hard he was, how much he wanted this. It was a reassurance. A relief. Knowing that Marty was enjoying this was all that mattered.

“I ain’t never felt like this.” Marty turned his head, eyes closed. “Not with any other man. D’you know what that means? How this is for me?”

“Yeah,” Rust breathed, “yeah, I do.”

“Shit,” Marty arched his neck, sought out Rust’s mouth, their lips meeting messily, “I want- I want you, Rust. Now, goddamnit. Now.”

Rust shook his head. “You ain’t ready.”

“ _Fuck_ , Rust-”

“Sex with men,” Rust whispered, “it ain’t never been good, not for me. I gotta do right by you, Marty, I gotta take care of you, so that you never have to fuckin’ suffer what I did. So just… _let me_ take care of you, okay? Let me do this the right way.”

He’d never told anyone else about what had been done to him, about the humiliations and the tortures that he’d let Ginger wreak upon his body– and he didn’t know how much Marty had figured out, how much he’d seen that fateful night when Rust had stumbled into his house carrying cheap flowers, but he knew Marty was smarter and more perceptive than people gave him credit for. He let the words hang in the air, waited to see how Marty would respond, tense at knowing his darkest secrets were leaving the security of his own memory. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t even think.

“…Okay.” Marty whispered. “Okay, Rust. I got you. I got you.”

Rust held him tighter, buried his face in Marty’s neck, almost shaking with relief. Marty kissed the back of his arm gently, and it felt like a blessing.

Rust wanted to thank him. Wanted to say more. Wanted to pour his heart out, tell Marty how much this meant, how special this was; not just a quick fuck, not just a fling, not just a casual relationship. He wanted to tell Marty the truth.

He couldn’t. But, somehow, he was sure Marty knew anyway.

 

***

 

Marty wasn’t used to this. Any of this.

He tried to breathe, tried to stay sane, tried to keep the crazed heat from taking him over completely. He’d had women do with their hands what Rust was doing to him now, but their touch had been slender and gentle– Rust’s hands were _man’s_ hands. Roughened by hard days and hard work, large and strong, fingers thick and clever. His elegance was matched only by his strength, and Marty was coming apart. Rust was so heavy on top of him, his skin moist with sweat, slick everywhere he was pressed against Marty’s back. Marty could feel the hot weight of Rust’s cock against the back of his thighs and it made him tremble, shake with how _strange_ this all was, and how much he wanted Rust inside him. He felt like he was about to explode. He felt like he was about to come. He was dizzy with it, absolutely helpless.

As if that wasn’t enough, he’d heard the tremor of vulnerability in Rust’s voice. Knowing that Rust had chosen to say those words aloud to him, to expose the most vulnerable part of himself, tipped Marty over the edge. Tears of happiness built in the corners of his closed eyes, dampening the pillow as he gasped and moaned, and he found himself smiling.

Shit, they weren’t even having sex yet. Feeling this good should’ve been illegal.

Eventually, the touch of Rust’s fingers disappeared, and Marty gasped with how… _loose_ he felt. He’d never experienced anything like that before. It was both profoundly disturbing and alarmingly erotic, just knowing what it meant, what they were about to do.

“Turn over,” Rust said, in a voice so hoarse and low that Marty felt lightheaded.

When he rolled over, wiping at his eyes, a look of pure panic filled Rust’s face.

“I’m okay,” Marty laughed, before Rust could demand to know what was wrong, “Just happy. Real happy.”

Rust stared in complete confusion, his mouth set into a hard, stressed line. Marty’s gaze travelled down his body, eyes widening as he took in every inch of Rust’s lithe body and tattooed skin, the way ink curled with the lean lines of his muscular frame. He was kneeling on the bed, knees spread, hips swayed forward. Marty’s eyes fixed on Rust’s cock, where it hung between hard thighs.

“…Oh.” Marty swallowed. “Oh, Christ.”

Rust completely misinterpreted his words, and he started to move away, off the bed.

"We'll do this some other damn time-"

“No.” Marty caught his wrist, looked pleadingly up at him. “No, Rust, I’m good. Look at me. Look at my face. I’m _okay._ Just fuckin’ nervous, nothin’ unusual about that.”

Rust looked tormented. Marty held his wrist tighter, tugged him back towards the bed gently.

“C’mon Rust, you know I ain’t lyin’. If I didn’t want this, I’d be out the fuckin’ door.”

Rust smiled, still unconvinced. But he let Marty pull him closer, and the bed dipped under the weight of his knees. Marty reclined on the bed, folded his hands behind his head and grinned up at Rust.

“Come on, then. Do your worst.”

Rust hesitated for just a moment longer before he shifted forward, kneeling between Marty’s spread legs. Marty’s grin faded, and his gaze wandered down to Rust’s cock again. He licked at his lips absently.

“Dunno why you keep lookin’ at it. Ain’t nothin’ impressive.”

“It’s gonna be the first I ever… take. So yeah, it is somethin’ impressive.” Marty looked up at him again. “ _You’re_ somethin’ impressive, Rust. All of you.”

Rust raised his eyebrows, exasperated. “Why d’you keep sayin’ things like that?”

“’Cause I mean it, you asshole. C’mon, then, let’s go, I’m tired of waitin’. Shit, is it midnight yet?”

“Probably.”

Rust moved forward, placed a hand on Marty’s chest. He wrapped a hand around the base of his cock, met Marty’s eyes. He looked terrified. Apologetic. Marty didn’t want to think about all the reasons that Rust would have to feel so frightened by sex. He didn’t know what more he could say to convince Rust that this was okay, so he just smiled, let his eyes soften with all the affection he could possibly communicate without words.

Rust nodded, took a shaky breath. Marty unfolded his hands from behind his head, took Rust’s hand. Held on tight.

It was painful, at first. Marty closed his eyes, sunk his teeth into his lip. Tried to adjust.

“Is it,” Rust’s voice was unsteady, “Marty, I need you to tell me-”

“It’s okay. I’m okay. Keep going.”

There was a quiet rustle of fabric as Rust shifted, then he was pressing even deeper, filling Marty so completely, and the feeling was somewhere between pain and perfection. Marty’s composure broke; he arched off the bed, a helpless cry hitting the air. He felt Rust flinch in surprise, his fingers tighten around Marty’s hand.

“Do you need me to-”

“Just let me,” Marty sucked in a sharp breath, “Just gimme a second.”

“I… I don’t want to hurt you. Marty-”

“I know. I know.”

Next thing Marty knew, he was encircled by strong arms, held in a warm, tight embrace. He wrapped his arms around Rust, whimpered against his shoulder. Felt a curl of Rust’s hair against his temple. They clung to each other, just trying to breathe.

Slowly, Marty let his legs fall open, let himself relax into Rust’s hold. He gasped as he felt Rust slide deeper inside him.

“Yes,” Marty breathed, “god, yes. Shit, that’s it. That’s it.”

Something about the uninhibited pleasure in his voice must’ve convinced Rust, because he tentatively moved his hips, making Marty cry out again.

“Fuck. Fuck, yeah. Come on, Rust.”

Rust moved his hips again, pressing his lips against Marty’s cheek, holding him tighter, so tight that Marty could barely breathe.

It was perfect.

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cracks knuckles* ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT, I PULLED OUT ALL STOPS TO GET THIS CHAPTER FINISHED AND OUT OF MY DRAFTS. HANNAH, YOU WONDERFUL WORDSMITH, THIS ONE'S FOR YOU.

Rust never wanted it to end.

He wanted to stay in this bed forever, submerged in Marty’s very existence. Buried within him, mouth against his skin– tasting him, touching him, swallowing his moans greedily and hungrily. There was no one else, nothing else, that mattered. Not there, not in that room. It was just the two of them, so wholly distracted by each other, every kiss and shift of their bodies unburdened by the discomfort of sex between disinterested partners. They both knew that this _mattered._ A mutual devotion took hold of them completely, overwhelming them both, and soon Rust was going rigid, hips stuttering still as an orgasm took him completely by surprise– and Marty, overcome by Rust’s hitched cry, fisted his hands in the sheets and came too.

It was perhaps too soon, too sudden; they stayed pressed together, Rust bowed over Marty, holding him close as Marty panted and gasped his way through climax. Rust was silent, shaking with it, eyes closed.

Eventually, they came down. Returned to earth. Became aware of themselves again, of the black sky outside the open window. Rust lifted himself up, looking down at Marty with flushed cheeks, an errant curl of hair falling down his forehead. He was fearful, expecting to see disgust or anger in Marty’s eyes.

But Marty was grinning. Complete bliss made his blue eyes dance with playful light, and he rolled his lip under his teeth shyly. Somehow, seeing him like this was a whole new kind of intimacy; pressed into the bed, his blond hair mussed from Rust’s fingers, panting quietly. Now that they’d stopped, there was a stillness between them that intensified everything. Their eyes met.

“…You okay?” Rust breathed, as if he couldn’t believe the happiness he could see in Marty’s face. He’d never felt that way, not after sex. Maybe years ago, with his wife, but those memories were an eternity away. He’d been a different man then.

“Yeah,” Marty laughed, a delighted peal of sound that made Rust’s eyes widen, “Yeah, better than okay.”

Rust nodded. Slowly, he pulled back his hips, a whiplash of panic tightening his throat when he saw Marty wince.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Marty huffed out a sigh, propped himself up on his elbows. He blinked, frowning as he familiarised himself with new sensations. “Wow.”

“It’ll hurt. For a while.” Rust sat back on his heels, resisted the urge to fold his hands over himself, hide his body. It was an old instinct, borne of darker nights. “Sorry-”

“’Ey, c’mon Rust, stop apologising.” Marty smiled lovingly, nudged Rust’s knee. He wasn’t shy about his body; he left his legs spread wide, chest rising and falling as his breathing returned to normal. “I’m a’right.”

Rust nodded, tapped his fingers on his thighs. He felt awkward. He wasn’t used to this. With Ginger, there hadn’t been conversation afterwards. Fuck, there hadn’t been conversation at all. He’d always been left facedown and broken, in too much pain to move. Ginger always slunk off without saying goodbye, leaving cigarette burns in the floor and shards of glass from broken bottles. Often, Rust had been too messed up to even realise Ginger had left, only realising he was alone when the high started to fade.

Seeing Marty like this, happy and conversational, made a cautious warmth bloom in Rust’s chest, and he realised that his worst fears hadn’t come to fruition. He hadn’t hurt Marty.

“D’you wanna smoke, or…?” Marty asked, “Seems to me like you’d wanna do that after sex."

Rust shrugged. “Nah. You might wanna shower, though.”

Marty considered that. “Can we just… stay here for a while?”

He asked the question shyly, head inclined forward in an expression of bashfulness that Rust found so endearing he just wanted to grab Marty and kiss him, kiss him everywhere, forever. He couldn’t deny this man anything.

He lay beside Marty, reached an arm around his shoulders, pulled him close so that Marty’s temple was against his chest. They shifted, settling against each other, becoming accustomed to the shape of their bodies. Knees touching, legs bumping, torsos slotting together. They’d never shared a bed before.

Rust listened to the sounds floating through the window, let Marty get comfortable. He closed his eyes.

Marty lay still after a while. They breathed together, not speaking. It was new, strange, and shockingly peaceful. Rust relaxed into the bed, and realised he’d been tense for years. He realised he’d been holding on for so long, body taut with fear in his every waking moment. He wondered when he’d started to feel this good, with Marty. When things had shifted. It’d happened so gradually, so slowly, that he hadn’t seen it coming.

As he lay there, he realised he was changing. Realised that a chapter of his life was ending, and that something new was beginning.

He tightened his hold on Marty’s shoulder, drew in a breath.

“Marty?”

“Yeah?” Marty mumbled sleepily.

“Her name was Claire. My wife.”

Marty didn’t respond. But he did stroke his fingers over Rust’s chest, gently, slowly.

Saying, _I’m listening. I’m here._

“After a few years as a cop, I was… someone else, Marty. I wasn’t the guy Claire married. She didn’t want me around our baby girl. Fair enough, too. Fuck, I’d… I’d fallen so deep that I couldn’t get out of my own head. The job didn’t make me that way– or, maybe it did, I dunno. But me bein’ that way, it made me right for the job. I was a good cop, but a shitty husband. An even worse father. I ain’t sayin’ I ever hurt them, you understand? Never. That’s not what it was.”

Marty nodded wordlessly. Rust’s chest shuddered with a hitched breath, and he realised he was starting to cry. He didn’t know why he was saying these things, but he knew he couldn’t stop. It was all pouring out of him.

“I just… I couldn’t function. That job, bein’ a cop, it took everythin’ I had. I knew more about murderers than I did children. I forgot when my baby girl’s birthday was, spent it chasin’ down a killer outside Texas. I started drinkin’ too much, I…” Rust felt tears slide down his cheeks, and he was trembling, lifting a hand and pressing it against his mouth, “After- After a while, I couldn’t… I couldn’t do it, Marty. Couldn’t be what they needed me to be. I was wakin’ up at night screamin’, takin’ too many pills to try and sleep… Claire, she was drivin’ to her dad’s place that night. We weren’t talkin’ divorce, just separation, so I could get my head right and our daughter didn’t have to see her father like that… They were gonna spend some time away. But then they- they-”

Rust couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. Marty held him tight, and Rust dug his fingers into Marty’s shoulder, trying to hold on, trying to find the strength to keep speaking.

“Semi-trailer. Caught them at a sharp bend. The driver, he- he’d been drinkin’, he died too. Fell asleep at the wheel. And the ambulance, they said… Said it was instant, Marty, for both of them. Said it like it mattered. Like it’d help me feel better,” Rust pressed his hand against his face, sobbing, “Her name was Sofia, Marty. Our baby girl. She was… She was so small, so tiny, hadn’t even _lived_ yet-”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“No, Marty, you- you don’t fuckin’ understand-”

“You can hate what happened to them. You can cry about it. You can be angry. But blamin’ yourself ain’t the right thing to do. You weren’t the one behind the wheel.”

Rust’s breaths caught in his throat, and he turned towards Marty, desperately seeking the comfort of his body, curling into him like a child. Marty pulled him close, and Rust felt like he was disintegrating, that Marty’s embrace was the only thing holding him together. He was crying too hard to speak, too far gone to argue when Marty whispered against his skin, told him he wasn’t to blame. The sound of his wailing, muffled against Marty’s chest, seemed so far away. Like he couldn’t possibly be the one making that sound. He wanted to apologise for ruining their first night together. He wanted to return to the stoicism he’d hidden behind for so long.

 “Anyway,” Marty murmured, smiling as he kissed the top of Rust’s head, “I ain’t gonna let you hurt yourself for them no more, so it don’t matter what you say.”

A hysterical laugh hiccupped its way out of Rust’s throat.

“’Cause I don’t reckon Claire would’ve wanted this for you, Rust. You said she didn’t want a divorce; she must’ve really loved you, to give you a second chance like that. And she wouldn’t have wanted you to suffer like this. Not for her.”

Rust couldn’t even draw breath to protest.

He just let himself cry.

 

***

 

Marty woke up slowly.

He winced as he felt an ache, deep inside him, one that made his eyes widen and his cheeks grow hot with a blush. He grinned as memories of last night filled him, as he remembered Rust against him, above him, inside him. He reached across the bed, fingers dragging over sheets, and it was only when he realised there was no one next to him that he stopped smiling. He sat up, alarmed, as he remembered how Rust had cried.

 _Shit,_ Marty thought, throwing off the sheets and stumbling to his feet, _he’s fuckin’ run away, hasn’t he? Fuck, fuck-_

Ignoring the moisture that was sticky between his legs, Marty threw on a shirt, still doing up his jeans when he burst out into the kitchen. Rust, standing at the bench and cooking bacon and eggs, looked over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow.

“…Mornin’.”

Marty stared at him for a stunned moment, thrown off-kilter by the anti-climax. Relief set in, and he laughed, ran a hand through his mussed hair.

“Mornin’, Rust.”

“Did you think I’d leave?” Rust asked quietly as he turned back to his cooking. The shirt he was wearing pulled too tight across his shoulders and Marty realised, with a jolt of affection, that it was his shirt.

“…Yeah. Wouldn’t have blamed you. The things you told me last night, they were-”

“I feel good, Marty.”

Marty frowned. “…What?”

Rust slid the spatula over the pan slowly before he responded.

“Lettin’ it all out last night, it was good for me. You’re good for me. For the first time in a fuckin’ long time, I don’t feel like it’ll be a challenge to make it through another goddamn day. I owe you for that.”

Marty let the words sink in. He couldn’t believe he was hearing this.

He wanted to cross the kitchen and pull Rust against him, kiss him breathless, but he knew that Rust needed space. That this was too important a moment for him, and he wanted to stay in control of it, keep things moving at a pace he dictated. Rust wasn’t used to closeness, emotional or otherwise. Marty knew he needed to respect that.

“…Nah,” he whispered, grinning, “Nah, Rust. You don’t owe me anythin’.”

Rust nodded, and Marty could see the way the side of his cheek rounded with a hidden smile.

“This won’t be done for a while longer. You go have a shower, I’ll come get you when breakfast’s ready.”

Marty nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

He hesitated for a moment.

“Love you, Rust.”

Rust went still. Then, he resumed cooking, as nothing had happened.

“Love you too, Marty. Go have a damn shower.”

 

 


	24. epilogue

“This is fuckin’ insane, Rust.”

“It was your idea.”

“No! No it wasn’t! When I said we should do somethin’ for our anniversary, I meant like…”

“What?”

“A dinner! Or gifts or some shit!”

“Those things are all temporary, Marty. This will last.”

“Yeah, but-”

“You two,” Jake interrupted, voice tense with stress, “are really getting on my fucking nerves.”

Marty and Rust looked at her, startled from their argument.

“Sorry, Jake,” Rust gazed up at her from where he was reclined on the tattooing chair, “don’t fuckin’ know why you’re so nervous, though.”

“You’re my boss. What if I fuck up?” She held up the tattoo gun, chewing on her lip worriedly. “You’ll kill me. Or _he’ll_ kill me.”

“He has a tattoo that literally says _‘God Is Dead’_ , Jake,” Marty said, laughing as he patted her on the shoulder, “you can’t do worse than that.”

 Rust glared at him dryly, Marty replying to his stare with a cheeky wink. Jake sighed dramatically, waving a hand in their direction as if to dismiss them both entirely. She was dressed in a plain button-down shirt and fitted jeans, and had started to grow her hair out to a boyish haircut. She still went by her more masculine name, and hated wearing dresses, but had abandoned the skinhead movement. A friend of hers, another young woman, was always hanging around the parlour. Rust didn’t feel the need to confront Jake about it; he was just glad she felt comfortable enough to bring her girlfriend around to where she worked.

“But seriously,” Marty said, sliding closer to the table as Jake went off to prepare the inks, eyeing the temporary outline that Jake had pressed into Rust’s collarbone, “are you sure you wanna do this?”

Rust reached over and took Marty’s hand, sliding their fingers together. Marty smiled, still marvelling at how well they fit, how natural this was now.

“It’s been a year, Marty,” Rust murmured, “wanna make this special.”

“He’s been designing the damn thing for two months, Marty,” Jake added, grumbling in a way that plainly betrayed how apprehensive she felt about performing such an important task.

“But it’ll… hurt, won’t it? Rust?”

Rust gestured wordlessly to his chest, his other tattoos exposed to the harsh fluorescent lighting. Marty rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, okay,” Marty sighed, “I see your point.”

Rust smiled. He stroked his thumb over Marty’s hand, and didn’t reply. Didn’t tease. Didn’t banter.

They were silent until Jake turned back towards them, tattoo gun ready and buzzing.

“Okay,” she said, “you’re ready?”

Rust nodded, not looking away from Marty.

She began tattooing.

White tulips would forever be painted on Rust’s skin.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK SO MUCH FOR READING EVERYONE!!! I'd love to have worked on this more, and put in more effort, but unfortunately real life's annoying like that, and I'm still in recovery. I HOPE IT WAS OKAY, THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR YOUR COMMENTS AND KUDOS, THEY FEED MY SOUL~~ special thanks goes out to Hannah and Qiosang for their enthusiasm and support~  
> (the significance of the ending will become apparent if you revisit chapter 1)


	25. postscript

_After uploading fanart to my[other fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10641018/chapters/23543193), I figured I may as well upload other fanart that was posted on my (now password-protected) old blog... here's some of the doodles I did while writing this story  _ _♡__ Thank you all, again, for reading and commenting!! This fic was a darn emotional rollercoaster, but we got there in the end~ ;D_

_-Jake_

 

 

 


End file.
